


Under the Stars

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Camping, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Self-Lubrication, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s mother takes him on a camping trip and invites a few Vulcans, who bizarrely oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is mildly AU, as it obviously never happened and I’m changing details of both of their teenage years. Also, please forgive my blatant lack of outdoors knowledge; I’m not a camper. ^^;
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re leaving in one week.

Even for an outdoors-y sort of teenager like Jim, it’s difficult to pack for a truly raw camping trip. He has to fish around for a hard copy of a Captain Proton novel under all the crap in his room to avoid bringing PADDs. He asks his mother if they have any matches, as flashlights would be cheating, but she says no. So he looks up on a PADD while he’s at the house how to start a fire, figuring he should really have that skill by now anyway. It doesn’t look too hard. He’s sure he can manage. When they start to pack up food, Jim pesters for marshmallows, chocolate, and graham wafers, which his mother eventually concedes too. Then he tries to pack some hamburger Synthesizer chips before she reminds him that ‘the woods’ don’t come with Synthesizers. 

Camping’s difficult that way. She takes him out to get ready for it, of course, and they hit several old-fashion shops to stock up on things—they get a near-ancient model of tent that needs to be set up by hand and two double sleeping bags. Then his mother gets herself a slightly fancier tent, and when Jim complains that that’s not authentic, she tells him ‘too bad,’ which seems to be her typical response he’s never actually found a way out of. They buy popcorn kernels and a pan to pop them in, and until that moment, it’s never really occurred to Jim that popcorn doesn’t just naturally form in the wild as _popcorn_. His mother laughs at him when he points that out, but hey, Iowa isn’t quite _that_ backwards. He’s used to basic amenities.

He asks in disgust if they’ll have to dig a pit for a bathroom, but she says they’ll be on known campgrounds with a ranger station a half hour away by foot. That seems a long way to walk with a full bladder, but when he says that, she says that’s half the point of ‘roughing it.’ It’s supposed to be rough. Jim says, “Challenge accepted, Mother,” and squints his eyes at her. She laughs and pats his shoulder, and then he asks if he can have a phaser to defend them from bears. She says no. 

Could he take a bear with his bare hands? Somehow, as a Starfleet Admiral, he thinks his mother could. But he’d still jump in between to defend her if it came to that. He’s looking forward to this too much. 

They pack bathing suits, and he wonders if he’ll run into any mysterious woodland bikini-clad babes in the woods. And then he’ll impress them by wrestling a bear and starting a fire. Maybe he’ll catch some fish with his hands. He spends the next two nights in one of the tents in the backyard, just because life is otherwise boring and he can.

* * *

It’s two days away from the trip when his mother comes home with a restrained sort of amusement-bewilderment etched on her face. She calls him down from the kitchen, and he says he’ll be there in five minutes, because he’s playing Deep Space Seven and on the final level. He spent half his summer vacation trying to beat this game, and he figures when he goes to the Academy next year, he won’t have much time to play. Not if he gets in like he plans, anyway. Then she yells much louder and he puts his game on hold, because he knows how this’ll end, and he can’t afford to piss her off too much when she’s got trip-canceling powers. 

He hangs over the top of the stairs and asks, “What?”

From the bottom, still kicking her shoes off in the hallway, she says, “We’re going to have guests with us on our trip.”

“What?” Jim’s face scrunches up instantly. They live in the middle of nowhere, so that rules out neighbours, and she already said no to all of his school friends, and, “You promised you wouldn’t bring the Hendorffs!”

“I’m not,” she tells him, rolling her eyes in clear irritation that he would bring up his grudge against ‘family friends.’ “I did, however, invite three visiting ambassadors as a way to get more out of their trip here. I really wasn’t expecting them to say yes.”

“Ambassadors?” Jim repeats. Knowing how high up in the Federation his mother is, that probably means _alien_ ambassadors. And camping with aliens sounds decidedly cool. But they he checks, “Not Grazerties, right?” Because the last time they had one of those over for dinner, they basically had to eat grass and it was boring as hell.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. They’re Vulcans.” Probably at the shocked look on Jim’s face, she says, “I know; hence why I was so surprised when they agreed. But apparently they’re interested in a look at what ‘primitive’ life on Earth once was. So we’re going to give them the tour. The three that agreed to come also have kids your age, so that might’ve contributed.”

“You... you want me to hang out with Vulcans,” Jim surmises numbly, too stunned to counteract the ‘kid’ term. His first thought is the irrational hope that one of them will be hot and Vulcans are partial to bikinis, but he knows how unlikely both of those things are.

His mother knows him too well. She rolls her eyes and says, “They’re all boys. ...And their mothers are you-don’t-even-want-to-know-how-much old, so I suggest you keep it in your pants.” Jim wrinkles his nose at even-remotely-sexual talk coming out of his mother’s mouth. He probably wouldn’t have tried anything anyway. ...Probably. “Anyway, just try and show them around. Show them what Earth is like. I’ll mostly be off with the ambassadors. ...I’m making pasta for dinner, you want any?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. And you’re not sleeping in that tent tonight; I’m sick of you tracking dirt on my nice floors.”

Jim shrugs. Maybe he should enjoy his bed while he can anyway. He’s not sure how much he’ll enjoy his tent if he has to share it with a bunch of snot-nosed robotic Vulcans, but then, they’ll probably have their own tents. And he knows he shouldn’t judge them like that. Maybe it’ll be okay. Just because the few Vulcans he’s met at Starfleet Headquarters with his mother clearly had sticks up their asses doesn’t mean all Vulcans suffer from the same complete lack of humour. Maybe younger ones are more fun. He’s pretty sure they aren’t born rigidly logical, at least. 

He manages to beat Deep Space Seven before dinnertime, and he spends most of the meal pondering whether or not to buy Deep Space Eight before the trip. He knows full well that there won’t be time to beat it by then, and if he’s halfway through, he’ll just miss it too much during camping, and he can’t play video games out in the woods. 

He ends up deciding to rough it. He eats three helpings of pasta, and when his mother accuses him of eating like a linebacker, he says he’s just stocking up.

* * *

The campgrounds don’t have a warp panel, so they have to take a hovertaxi from the nearest town. The driver is a friendly Bolian who spends the whole way there talking about deer, which are nice, but not nearly as fascinating as he seems to think. Jim gets bored out of his mind ten minutes in and reverts to his Captain Proton book. It’s not as fun as playing the Captain Proton video games, but it’s better than hearing about deer. (Which he can still hear if he listens, as his mother is too polite to tell the driver to shut up. Well, too polite to strangers, at least. If _Jim_ did this, she’d throw him straight out of the car.) 

All of their equipment is fold-up, of course, and it fits into four small backpacks: two personal ones and two equipment ones. The driver asks them if they brought binoculars. His mother did, actually, in order to show the Vulcans some of the native wildlife. The driver tells them shrewdly that Vulcan deer are hideous and hardly even deer at all. Now _Bolian_ deer—those, apparently, are something.

When they finally reach the campground station, they bid the driver a kind farewell, and he jovially wishes them fun. As he drives off, Jim and his mother head towards the campgrounds. His mother carries one backpack and Jim struggles with three, insisting that he’s the man of the house and can do it. 

Once sufficiently out of earshot of anyone, Jim mockingly proclaims, “Have I told you about the rare humpback deer of Ca—” And his mother promptly smacks him in the back of the head. Jim just laughs, knowing full well that he deserved it. 

“If I ever hear about another deer in my life, so help me...” But she just sort of trails off. 

Jim pictures a Vulcan riding a deer for no apparent reason. There is no way in hell he’s going to manage to be logical for the next three days. He’s sure of it.

* * *

Jim wants to setup both tents, but his mother laughingly shoos him away to do his own while she does hers. He’s both impressed and irritated when she erects hers easily and first, and he’s too stubborn to let her help with his. So he continues staking polls into the ground while she sets up other things and starts to arrange logs around a pre-assigned fire pit. They’re in a small clearing of mostly dirt, with grass and general woods around them comprised of thick, green trees nearly blocking out the mid-level sun. There’s a lake a little ways away that his mother tells him about, and the ranger station is in the opposite direction. It occurs to him in the midst of his tent-setup that it’s too far away to bother heading to in the dark of night, so he’ll probably just piss in the woods if he has to. ...But he’s definitely not going to tell his mother that. 

He’s got it mostly set up, though it needs a bit of work, when he hears a general commotion behind him. Jim turns to find a small group of obviously-Vulcans headed down the faded path, all in stereotypical Vulcan style. They all have short, glossy black hair, even the two women, and they all have pointed ears, and they’re all wearing not very good facsimiles of human clothing—pants and sweaters. Most of them have odd cuts to them—extra ‘v’s and an almost robe-like quality, but one of the boys seems to be wearing jeans and a regular, white, wooly sweater. The women are wearing something between dresses and robes that touch the forest floor. The adults are all carrying shoulder bags, but there are no backpacks. Obviously, they don’t know what they’re doing. 

Somehow, they all look simultaneous out of their element and perfectly fine. There are a few spare glances around the woods, but the adults head straight for Jim’s mother, who stands up and walks over to greet them. A few curt nods are exchanged, and she calls, “Jim, c’mere!”

He casts a warning glare at his tent—it better not collapse while he’s gone—and jogs over. He’s already discarded his own jacket in favour of jeans and a white t-shirt, but then, he’s been working. The air is nice and cool. Jim forces a smile at the aliens, and they regard him with completely level faces. 

“This is Ambassador T’Pern and her son, Stonn,” Jim’s mother starts, gesturing around. None of them offer hands to shake or so much as smiles. “This is Ambassador T’Paul and her son, Suval.” Last is the man and the teenage boy in jeans and a sweater, “And this is Ambassador Sarek and his son, Spock.” 

Because Jim’s already unable to cope with the stifling atmosphere, he smiles and thrusts his hand out at the last person introduced. Spock blinks, glancing down at it, and his cheeks flush a pale green. For a second, Jim thinks he’s made the other boy sick, and then he remembers that Vulcans have green blood. So... that must be Vulcan blushing, however faint it is. Spock hesitates to take his hand, and Jim waits for Spock’s long, smooth fingers to tentatively slip against his before he wraps around them. He can feel Spock tense slightly, evidently not expecting that. Jim squeezes Spock’s fingers to be reassuring, and he lifts his hand. It’s the lightest handshake he’s ever given, but the touch lingers. When he slips his hand away, one of the other Vulcan boys, back behind their parents, snickers. Spock’s cheeks stain a little deeper and he pointedly looks away. 

He’s... cute. Jim doesn’t have any problem admitting that. He smiles at Spock while his mother finishes, “Boys, I’m Admiral Kirk, and please let me or my son, James, know if you need anything on this trip. This is our first camping trip since he was little, actually, but I think we should be able to get the hang of things pretty easily.”

“Call me Jim,” Jim corrects, and he doesn’t have to look up to know his mother’s rolling her eyes. No one actually calls him ‘James.’

“Anyway, shall I show you around? Help you set up your tents, perhaps?”

“Yes,” one of the ambassadors—T’Paul?—answers. “These... ‘tents’ you requested we purchase are very interesting constructs.”

“We had similar structures in our distant past,” Sarek adds, “But as they were replaced, their design was not up-kept for modern use.”

“A most fascinating concept,” T’Pern admits. They’re all displaying evident curiosity, but not a one of them looks anything but blank. Boring. 

Jim finally tears his eyes away from Spock to stare at his mother until she acknowledges him. “How about you show the boys how to do their tents, Jim?”

Jim salutes like a cadet. “On it!

* * *

Halfway back to Jim’s tent, Spock opens his bag and abruptly wanders back over to his father. The Vulcan boys linger after him, Jim stopped where he is. “Father,” Spock asks, once Sarek looks away from Jim’s mother, who was in the midst of explaining the local wildlife to them. “The tent and sleeping bag tubes are not in here.” Lifting an eyebrow, Sarek reaches out his hand. Spock passes him the bag. 

After going through it, Sarek concedes, “That appears to be so. They have gone missing.” Stonn snickers. Jim looks over in time to catch Suval’s quick smirk, but he seems to be the only one to notice. Sarek pauses to consider an alternative. 

Before Jim can point a finger at the probable culprits, his mother suggests, “That’s alright; Spock can share Jim’s tent. Tents are usually supposed to fit at least two people anyway.” She looks over at Jim with a bit of a glare, as though willing him to agree, but it’s not needed. 

He smiles easily and announces, “It’s fine; he can stay with me.” He grins extra hard at Spock, whose expression doesn’t change beyond the slight greening of his cheeks again. When Sarek nods and turns away, Jim shoots a smirk at the other two Vulcan boys, who barely spare him a glance. He meant to be smug at foiling their plan, but evidently, they don’t consider that done. Maybe they don’t think sleeping with Jim is any better than the dirt. 

Well, that’s on them. He takes Spock back to his tent, then tells the other two, “So your tents will probably be a bit different than mine, but they’re probably going to have the same basic wiring—”

“We do not require your assistance,” Suval abruptly cuts him off. 

“We will be able to construct our tent more efficiently if you are not in our way,” Stonn adds. To which Jim kind of wants to punch them both out for being so rude.

For his mother’s sake, he just grunts, “Fine,” and starts unzipping his tent flap. He takes his backpack in and gestures for Spock to follow. A bit stiffly, Spock does.

Jim does the dark blue flap up behind him. The light’s a bit dimmer in here; they’ll just be vague silhouettes from the outside, gone from view when the sun goes down. Jim awkwardly pulls his sleeping bag out of his backpack while Spock sits quietly in the corner. For a long while, Jim unrolls his sleeping bag in silence and checks on the tent’s structure. 

When he has to shove Spock out of the way to stretch the sleeping bag out properly, he mumbles, “I’m surprised Vulcans would agree to go on an authentic camping trip.” As Spock’s been a man of few words so far, he doesn’t really expect an answer. 

But Spock concedes softly, “As am I.”

Jim chuckles. “How can you be surprised? You said you’d come.” Then he realizes how stupid that is, and he amends, “Your parents made you join them?”

Sitting back down on the now laid out sleeping bag, Spock nods. “Yes.”

“Any idea why they’d do that?” Because he must have _some_ idea, and it is weird.

For a moment, Spock pauses. He seems to be considering something, and then he says very slowly, looking away, “I believe my father is attempting to... honour my mother’s memory.”

It takes Jim a minute to get that. And he frowns. He doesn’t know what to say first, so he settles on, “I’m sorry.” When Spock raises an eyebrow at him, Jim elaborates, “For your mother. ...She... liked camping...?”

Spock looks aside again. Jim has a chance to admire his stern profile, now screwed up in something akin to concentration. “I do not know. She was human. While my upbringing has been almost entirely Vulcan, I believe it is his wish to expose me to brief glimpses of my human heritage. ...As for the other ambassadors, I cannot speak to their motives. Perhaps they believed it would prove an interesting study in human culture.” Jim nods. But honestly, he doesn’t really care about the other ambassadors right now.

“...My dad’s dead too,” Jim shares, for no particular reason. Spock looks sideways at him. “I don’t know much about him, but my mom says he loved camping. He was a Starfleet captain; he loved adventures and stuff like that.” When he stops talking, he expects Spock to go on, but Spock doesn’t say anything. 

After a moment, Jim says purely to break the silence, “Wouldn’t it be weird if our single parents hooked up out here?” And then his nose wrinkles up, because that’s a disgusting thought. His mother with anyone is a disgusting thought, but particularly with a super strict and uptight Vulcan.

Spock’s eyebrows knit together, and Jim thinks that must be the look of a mildly horrified Vulcan.

* * *

When everyone’s finished setting up, the parents are still talking about boring things. Professing this officially too boring to put up with, Jim suggests heading for the lake. Stonn and Suval concede to this, disappearing back into their tent to change into the appropriate gear. 

Spock seems surprised by this, and Jim asks, “Did you bring swim trunks?”

“I did not.”

“That’s fine; you can borrow mine.” Jim’s smile is an attempt to be comforting, but it’s difficult to tell from Spock’s blank reaction whether or not it’s working.

Then Jim ducks back into his tent, holding the flap open for Spock to follow, so they can change. It takes Spock a second to follow, and as he does, he asks, “We are both going to change in here?”

“We’re both guys; we can handle that,” Jim answers. Never mind his ulterior motives. He’s changed in locker rooms before; schools and sports teams do that. He pulls two pairs of trunks out of his bag—gold for him and blue for Spock. Spock holds onto them awkwardly. 

Sighing, Jim tries to make him comfortable by starting first. Jim tugs his shirt over his head, pausing a little bit and looking forward, catching Spock’s reaction out the corner of his eye. Spock’s _staring_ at him. But then Jim unzips his fly, and Spock hurriedly looks aside. He pulls his own sweater stiffly over his head, and Jim catches a quick look. He pushes his jeans and underwear down his thighs while Spock pulls off his shirt, stealing a glance at Jim’s lap and quickly looking away again. Jim can’t help but smirk; even limp and unexpected like this, he knows he’s impressive. Well, by human standards anyway. He doesn’t know what a Vulcan cock looks like exactly, and he can’t help but be curious. He pulls his pants all the way off and looks expectantly at Spock while he steps into his trunks. 

Spock turns his back to Jim. It’s a little disappointing, but not that bad; he’s got a cute ass. A little round, mostly taut. Spock’s whole body is lithe and pale, strong, but with less obvious muscles than Jim. Jim’s only slept with two or three guys, and they were good looking, but not... as _alluring_ as Spock, somehow. He can’t help it; he indulges in a quick daydreaming about shoving Spock down onto the sleeping bag and licking a trail up his spine before taking him roughly against the ground. 

Jim’s mouth slips into a half-frown when the swim trunks go up, but at least they’re _his_ swim trunks. There’s something bizarrely endearing about seeing the half-alien in his clothing. As Spock slowly turns back around, Jim asks half to distract Spock from his own embarrassment and half to keep them in the tent, “Was it hard growing up on Vulcan as a half-human, having to be logical all the time and stuff?”

Spock blinks, as though this is something he’s thought about in depth but never properly been asked. He settles on a simple, “I strive to be logical.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Jim says, “That’s not what I asked.”

“It could be perceived as trying in certain areas, but as a Vulcan, there is no reason to allow that to interfere with my way of life.” Jim has to stifle a snort, because that’s such a very _Vulcan_ answer. And even though he’s heard that Vulcans can’t lie, he thinks it’s bullshit. 

So Jim tries another switch-the-topic tactic, figuring he’ll go back to the half-Vulcan thing later. (Because he is kind of curious about it.) “What would you do if a bear broke into our tent? Would you still be logical?”

“A bear?” Spock repeats, frowning. Jim nods, then thinks of explaining what a bear is, but Spock repeats instead, “I am not familiar with the appropriate way to handle a bear. However, I believe we are not its target food, and therefore I would not engage it. Perhaps if we simply ignored it, it would leave.”

“You’d ignore it?” Jim can’t help but laugh. 

Frowning deeper, Spock asks, “Is my answer dissatisfactory?”

“No.” Jim’s grinning. He has to admit that Spock’s stilted speech is becoming a little... adorable. “Just cute.” Spock’s eyebrows knit together again, clearly confused. 

Jim climbs back out of the tent, reaching out to grab Spock’s wrist and tugging Spock with him.

* * *

Before they leave, Jim’s mother tells him to be careful. At the Vulcans’ pseudo-concerned reaction, she quickly assures them that the lake is perfectly safe; Jim just needs to be warned because he’s ‘trouble.’ Jim can’t really argue with that. Then his mother has to insist that he’ll behave and it’ll be fine, but Jim can still see Sarek’s veiled reluctance to let Spock away from him. T’Pern and T’Paul seem convinced their sons will be perfectly fine, although they clearly think Jim shouldn’t be allowed out on his own if he’s grown so unruly. 

The four boys head down to the lake together, Jim between Spock and the others. Stonn and Suval are both, undeniably, also hot in just their swim trunks, though their attitude does make him want them less. They’re still good eye candy. Jim can’t help but vaguely wonder if all Vulcans his age are this attractive or if he just got lucky. Really lucky. He’s practically salivating at the thought of getting them wet before he even gets there. Sometimes he can have a one-track mind. But he figures that’s normal for a young man. And really, who wouldn’t salivate at the thought of swimming with three hot half-naked Vulcans? Jim’s fantasy quickly turns into an orgy wherein he’s the king and he has a Vulcan harem, where Spock’s his head consort and he makes Suval and Stonn wear tiny loin clothes and spank each other every time they say something illogical.

Sometimes Jim’s head is so ridiculous that he’s mildly ashamed of himself. Still, he doesn’t regret it. There isn’t much of a beach area around the lake; where they are, it’s mostly dirt and rock ledges that loom or dip into it with a few trees overhead. Jim finds and leads them towards a rocky path that dips slowly down. He wades in a few steps, gets in to mid-thigh, and turns to ask, “Do you guys wanna play Marco Polo or something? I didn’t bring a ball or anything to play with.”

“Why would we need to ‘play’?” Suval asks, as though Jim’s being foolish for even suggesting fun. 

Stonn adds in a not-as-level-as-it-should-be tone, “Spock would most likely enjoy your ‘game.’”

“He is half-human,” Suval says. That’s entirely irrelevant. 

“Humans are unreasonable in that regard.”

“As are half-humans and in most regards.”

Stonn nods. Spock says nothing, merely stands a few steps away from them and watches Jim. Scowling, Jim says, “Shut up. You don’t have to play.” And he leaves off the ‘if you’re just going to be douchebags’ part. As toned as both of their chests are, Jim’s getting annoyed with their faces, so he turns and wades a little deeper into the water, until he can finally start to swim instead of walk. It’s not particularly deep around here, but it is fairly clear water, clean, with very few fish and plant-life. The bottom is covered in rocks like a river, though it probably gives way to dirt a little farther out. Jim’s not sure. It’s a small thing, with a completely still surface.

Stonn and Suval come in first with Spock trailing behind them. They all slip into the water smooth as silk. It’s not exactly the pool behaviour he’s used to. But, he supposes, it makes sense. They’re all around more graceful than him. Stonn and Suval wade right up to Jim, staying easily above the water, while Spock trails a little off to the side. The water’s a pleasant temperature, neither cold nor particularly warm. Suval asks Jim, “What is the purpose of this exercise?”

“Exercise,” Stonn repeats. Jim laughs, because that sounds like a joke, but neither of them laugh, so he stops abruptly. 

Suval asks Jim, “Is that the purpose? Perhaps if we pick a course and then swim it repeatedly...”

“You wanna swim laps?” Jim repeats in laymen’s terms. That... doesn’t sound fun at all. But he’s not sure how to explain to them that swimming doesn’t really _have_ a purpose, just as camping doesn’t. Things on Earth don’t have to. 

“Perhaps if we race,” Stonn suggests. “A test of agility and strength.”

“That is not fair, as they will be at a disadvantage,” Suval points out, and though the way he says it doesn’t sound particularly offensive, it _is_ kind of offensive. “Humans are not as physically adept at Vulcans.”

“I’m an excellent swimmer,” Jim snorts. He glances sideways, but Spock is simply observing. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble swimming either.

Stonn decides anyway, “Perhaps another activity would be better suited to our group’s... particular makeup.”

It takes Jim a second to think of something else, and he tries, “Do you know what tag is? It’s really simple, you just—”

“I am familiar with that particular human game,” Stonn interjects, “and I find it both thoroughly juvenile and something that will again hold both of you at a disadvantage.” Even more than being told that he’ll lose, Jim doesn’t like their continual assumption that Spock’s any worse than them. He spends a few seconds trying to think of something else. 

Then he thinks ‘fuck it’ and abruptly splashes Stonn and Suval with a wave of water before they can see to stop it. Partially on instinct and partially not to make Spock feel left out, he turns enough to send a splash into Spock too. As soon as he’s hit, Spock stumbles back in the water, closing his eyes and shaking his head, tossing droplets everywhere. His eyes scrunch up. Grinning and stifling his laughter, Jim looks back at the other two boys, who’re simply frowning at him. Their naturally tilted eyebrows make them look angrier than they probably are. 

He isn’t expecting to get hit with water in the back of the head, but apparently Spock’s taken advantage of his distraction. Jim’s head bends forward with the impact, and he swirls around to send another wave back, but now Spock’s thrashing wildly at him, and Jim gets caught in a sudden battle of water. When too much gets in his nose, he snorts and takes a deep breath, pushing under the surface. 

He goes down just far enough to step on the rocks below, and then he shoots up like a dolphin, splashing as much as possible. He’s only a few centimeters from Spock, and the force of the water pushes Spock back a bit. Jim paddles quickly backwards too, now dripping wet and grinning, endorphins rushing. He needed that. 

Spock’s just as wet, and his dark hair is slicked down around his face. That combined with his expression makes him look like a sad, wet dog, left out in the rain and confused by that. Jim almost lets out a pity laugh. 

Clearing his throat, Suval draws Jim’s attention back by asking, “Perhaps you would prefer to swim laps with us rather than to... waste time doing whatever it is Spock is doing.”

Stonn points a little ways off to the side, along the shore. “That seems to be the most suitable area to conduct our exercise.”

Purely because their parents are ambassadors and Jim doesn’t want to face his mother if he fucks this up, he resists the urge to roll his eyes at them. He just shrugs and says, “I’ll stay here, thanks. You guys have fun.”

They share a small look between each other, eyebrows raised. But they do turn around and paddle away, as easily as fish and without the large splashing Jim and Spock caused. The second they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Jim mumbles, “Is it so unbelievable that I don’t want to swim laps like a zombie?”

“Their expressions were in regard to your final remark,” Spock says. Jim looks sideways at him curiously, and he explains, “Your wish that they ‘have fun.’ The purpose of exercise is not to derive entertainment, and therefore your statement did not make any sense to them.”

“Oh.”

“Also, may I ask what I have done to upset you?”

It’s Jim’s turn to scrunch his eyes up. He subconsciously starts to swim backwards a little, paddling towards a far ledge, just aimlessly drifting on his back like an otter. Fortunately, Spock follows, albeit a tad hesitantly. He’s just sort of wading, paddling in place, but smoothly enough to not disturb any off the water more than a centimeter away from him. “Why would you think I’m upset with you?” If anything, Jim’s starting to enjoy Spock’s company. 

“You attacked me. ...I do apologize for my defensive stance in return.”

“I attacked you,” Jim mumbles, adding, “with water.” When Spock nods, Jim bites his lip to stop from grinning too much. “Spock, that wasn’t an attack. It’s just something people do in the water. For fun. You’re supposed to splash back.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

After a pause, Spock amends, “No.”

Jim laughs. “I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie.”

“That was a vague statement not intended to—” 

But Jim cuts him off with another splash of water. Spock doesn’t hesitate to return the fire this time, and Jim just shakes it off, feeling cool and happy. He’s been looking forward to this trip, and it’s not disappointing. He probably wouldn’t have had much fun swimming with just his mom anyway. ...And having Spock to look at is definitely a bonus. 

Spock obediently follows wherever Jim swims, probably because he’s unfamiliar with the terrain, and Jim leads him gently around the shore, looking for a higher ledge. They talk a bit while they go, falling, somehow, easily into the ebb and flow of their own dynamics; Jim will say something random or reckless in a strong, undeniable way, and Spock will deny it with bemused or certain logic, and then Jim will keep going. Eventually, they always get to the end. Work something out. They’re oddly compatible in a dissimilar way. Jim continually steals little glances sideways, catching the way stray droplets cling to Spock’s pale skin, the way his lips look pinker when moist and the way his hair isn’t brushed so perfectly anymore. His shoulders aren’t quiet as broad as Jim’s, and his neck might be a little more slender, a little longer, and Jim watches the way his adam’s apple bobs when he talks. Water likes to gather in his collarbone, like it does at the end of his nose. Eventually, Jim finds the perfect place. 

He picks a smaller shore nearby, and he wades over to climb up, helping Spock along the way, careful not to slip over the mix of dirt and stone. Then they’re weaving through smaller trees, until they hit the top, only a few meters up. But it’s something. He knows the water’s deep enough there—he already tested it. Because it seems kind of like his duty as the clear leader of this expedition, Jim informs Spock, “Diving’s kind of dangerous out here to do with an ambassador’s son and my mom so close, so we’re just going to canon-ball, which is just as good. And when you do that, you always have to make sure the water’s deep enough. I know you probably don’t think I’m that responsible, but that’d be a really shitty way to die, so I know what I’m doing.” Just in case Spock wanders off on his own to go swimming...

Spock takes this information as well as can be expected. He dissects first, “I assume from your context that by ‘canon-ball,’ you do not mean an ancient Earth projectile weapon.”

“Correct,” Jim answers as scientifically as he can, only half-mocking because Spock’s so damn mock-able. “It’s a way of jumping into the water—you pull your knees up to your chest and hold onto them like this.” He jumps in midair to mimic the movement, landing heavily on his feet after. They were nice and clean, but now they’re collecting mud. It’s getting a bit darker outside, and though it’s still a fairly pleasant temperature, being wet and out of the water is getting him a little cold. He should’ve thought to bring towels down from the camp. In the interest of getting back in the water, he waves his hand. “Never mind; just follow me. Do what I do.” 

And he abruptly spins on the spot, jogging through the few trees towards the end of the ledge, jumping right off at full-speed.

He hits the water a split-second later, the surface shattering beneath him and splashing everywhere, his weight sinking him down too fast to notice anything but water all around him. Feeling his trunks ride up and his ears fill, he lets himself sink to the bottom, only to push up a moment later. He bursts from the water just in time to see Spock take a glorious leap, clutching his legs to his chest before immediately letting go, exactly replicating Jim’s demonstrative jump. Spock’s feet hit the water first, sinking down like a rigid doll. Jim bursts out into laughter; he’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone do a shittier cannon ball in his life. 

He’s still laughing when Spock surfaces a moment later, abruptly flinging his hair out of his eyes. His bangs slick sideways, clinging in place, and he looks somewhere between ridiculous and wildly beautiful.

Spock looks at Jim expectantly. 

Humans can lie, so Jim says, “Perfect.”

The corner of Spock’s mouth twitches, as though finally threatening a smile.

* * *

They only leave when it’s started to get dark and Jim’s mother’s voice calls from a little ways deeper into the woods, retreating back as soon as Jim answers. Jim collects Stonn and Suval, who’ve been studiously doing laps the entire time. As they step out of the water, Stonn comments, “That was not entirely unpleasant.”

“We can come back tomorrow,” Jim offers, because he knows Spock’s unlikely to refuse, and he had a lot of fun. And he wouldn’t mind getting Spock wet again. Spock’s trunks stick to his legs as he climbs out of the lake, outlining his crotch and his ass as he strolls a few steps ahead of Jim, then turns when he realizes Jim isn’t following. Jim’s eyes abruptly jerk back up until Spock turns around again. Spock’s ass looks taut and tight. He has shapely legs—he’s defined and just the right amount of muscle for Jim’s ideal taste. There’s a tiny bit of dark hair poking out of his trunks in the front. The thought of what’s going on under those clinging trunks— _Jim’s_ trunks—makes Jim have to abruptly switch his train of thought; there’ll be no hiding an erection like this. He tries to think of less sexy things, like Spock dressed up like an octopus, which nearly makes him laugh out loud. 

As they start to ascend the bank and head back to the woods, Stonn comments lightly behind them, “Perhaps we should report this.”

Jim can tell that Stonn’s speaking to Suval, but he interrupts, anyway. “Report that we went swimming?”

“Report to Ambassador Sarek the illogical behaviour of his son,” Stonn corrects.

“I believe it would be our duty as fellow Vulcans,” Suval adds, as though this is somehow any business of his at all. Jim stops walking immediately, and Spock takes a second to stop behind him. The two others are further back and can’t move forward with Jim blocking the way. As though Jim simply doesn’t understand, Suval elaborates, “We witnessed the large jumps into the water as well as the array of splashing about like some sort of aquatic creature.”

Stonn looks like he wants to add something, but Jim snaps, “Just stop it.” He’s worked himself into a glare. Honestly, he’s been more than reasonable. “What the hell is wrong with you two? Just leave him alone.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Suval says, “We are merely acting in the best interests of our race. It is important that our ideals are upheld by every member of our society—”

“And if not you just toss little jibes at them all the time? Just because he’s a little bit different than you? How would you like it if we were on a trip with a bunch of humans and everyone pointed out how different _you_ were and how stupid your ears look?” Immediately after he says it, Jim wishes he hadn’t. His cheeks turn a little pink with regret, but he doesn’t take it back. He didn’t mean to say that. He doesn’t think their ears are stupid, but when he’s angry, he says things he doesn’t mean. There’s a moment of general silence, wherein Jim doesn’t look sideways at Spock standing next to him. 

Then Stonn simply says, “That would be a different scenario, as we have never claimed to be members of human society, a concept which Spock seems to confuse. Therefore we cannot be expected to uphold your... aesthetic preferences.”

Jim just barely stops himself from making a crack about their haircuts. Their excuses don’t make their bullying any more acceptable. Before he can figure out the right retort, Suval cuts in, “I believe Ambassador Sarek would wish to know of this. If my son were acting in a shameful manner, I would appreciate being informed.”

Stonn throws in, “If he is not adequately scolded for his actions he will never learn—”

The reasonable thing to say would be that it’s not Stonn’s place to decide what Spock needs to learn or Suval’s place to decide if Spock’s father should be ashamed of him. Instead of saying that, Jim practically snarls, “You shut up right now, or I’m going to punch you right in your green face!”

Stonn looks startled for half a second. Then he schools himself quickly into a level frown, asking with clear animosity, however veiled, “Is that a derogatory reference to my blood?”

“Yeah, and unless you want it all over the ground, I suggest you keep your moth shut.” Jim shoots Suval a glare to make it clear that this assault is aimed at both of them. Jim half-expects Suval to point out ‘Vulcan superior strength’ and that a physical fight wouldn’t bode well for Jim, even though he’s positive he’s got more fighting experience than them and he’d win. 

Instead, Suval takes a minute to say, “Then, in the interest of our mothers’ diplomatic relations with your mother, we will refrain from a report.”

As much as Jim wants to demand they lay off all together, he quits while he’s ahead and settles for a curt, “Good.”

He turns on the spot like lightning, half forgetting that Spock’s stood beside him the entire time. Spock’s face is mostly as blank as the other Vulcans, but Jim thinks there might be a bit of surprise or confusion somewhere in there. 

He takes Spock’s hand more forcefully than he means to and practically drags Spock up the hill.

* * *

Dinner is a mildly awkward affair in more ways than one. Every one sits next to the their parents, and while Jim’s mother shows them how to roast veggie dogs on the fire, (as Vulcans are apparently vegetarian) the Vulcans do their best to veil their obvious disgust. They don’t seem to want to eat with their hands but sticks are ever worse. Jim fetches an actual stick, but his mother confesses to predicting such a dilemma, and she pulls several foldout metal tongs from a case. She shows them how to use these to skewer the imitation meat, and she passes out a set of buns and condiments. Jim can tell from all of the muted reactions that hotdogs aren’t a typical food on Vulcan, but in the interest of respect, they follow along. 

Spock doesn’t put any condiments on his bun, so as soon as Jim’s finished with his, he drizzles a quick line of ketchup along Spock’s bun. Spock shoots him a sidelong look something akin to a glare, but Jim just mumbles, “Trust me, you’ll need that.” Then he squirts some mustard on too, because even if Spock doesn’t take all the rest, those are just basic requirements. Spock, too polite to ask for another bun, just accepts this. 

Jim loads his own with a myriad of ingredients—he likes a taste explosion in his mouth. His mother informs him, “Vulcan foods are often mild by human standards.”

“And they are often less... fragrant,” T’Pern adds. Jim nods like he’s soaking this in. Sometimes he’s afraid his mother’s going to quiz him on the Starfleet knowledge she puts under his nose, even though he still has time before the Academy and will already have a leg up on his peers. T’Pern and Stonn are continually rotating their veggie dogs, while T’Paul and Suval are waiting a period of about three seconds on each side. Jim’s shoving his right into the fire, not caring if it’s blistering. His mother’s is the same, simply because she’s more preoccupied monitoring the others. Sarek is more patient, allowing his about five seconds on each side. Spock seems torn between mimicking his father and Jim, and his imitation wiener hovers at mid level.

“Don’t worry,” Jim says mostly to Spock, but it fits for the group as a whole. “It’s pretty much impossible to screw hotdogs up.”

“Veggie dogs,” his mother corrects, because she’s his mother, and she does that no matter how old he gets. He just rolls his eyes. 

“Are they always cooked over an open fire?” Sarek asks, voice toneless. 

“No,” Jim’s mother laughs. “Traditionally, they’re meant for this, but in the city, they’re cooked by regular means. Some consider this to be better for the flavour, however.”

“Interesting,” T’Paul says, sounding only marginally, barely interested. But that seems the way of the whole group.

Jim vaguely wonders if he’ll go insane before the three days are up. He pulls his stick back before the others, because he’s too impatient and hungry to wait any longer. His is nearly black on the bottom anyway, and it’s full of blisters. He drops it in the bun in his lap atop the synthesized ‘paper’ plate. Pulling the stick out is a bit messy—he gets ketchup on it accidentally, then tosses it over his shoulder. He’s got the bun halfway up to his mouth before his mother scowls, “Jim, it’s rude to eat before everyone has their food.”

“Everyone has their food,” Jim points out. It’s not his fault they’re slow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock pulling back his veggie dog too. His tongs come out cleaner than Jim’s stick did. 

Jim looks over instantly, fully ready to see Spock eat a wiener. But Spock’s just staring down at it. Jim looks over at Suval and Stonn—he’ll settle for that. But neither of them seem convinced their food is properly cooked. 

Jim’s mother suddenly passes around a bag of silverware, to Jim’s great confusion. Spock seems relieved to pull out a knife and fork, and the bag’s passed on and around the circle. When Jim’s mother deems her veggie dog ready, the others do too. She rolls up her bun and uses the knife and fork like the Vulcans. 

Jim eats with his hands, because this is just ridiculous, and it’s what his hands are _for_. The first bite is delicious. Just the way he likes it—messy and uneven. He gets a bit of sauce and crumbs all over his lips and has to lick it off, but hey, that’s part of the camping experience. It’s not supposed to be pristine. Obviously, he’s the only one that thinks that. The rest of them eat very slowly, and while Jim still sneaks a few glances sideways, it’s not as hot as if Spock were just shoving a wiener in his mouth. Jim has the bizarre and vindictive thought that Stonn and Suval should be force fed wieners by hand as a punishment for being dicks. He snickers to himself and crosses his legs just in case the image does anything to his head, but no one seems to notice. The Vulcans are all too caught up in their unusual food. Jim mumbles under his breath to Spock, “How’s it taste?”

Spock says, “Fascinating.”

Jim laughs loud enough to draw attention this time, because he’s not sure he’s ever heard a stranger description of a hotdog in his life.

* * *

“You ate off a stick,” Spock concludes while they change into pajamas. Spock’s not usually the instigator of conversation, so Jim looks around instantly. 

Jim isn’t technically changing into pajamas—he’s just stripping down to his boxers. Apparently, so is Spock. _Perfect._ It’s hard to tell through the darkness now that the stars are past the tent and the fire’s out, but he thinks Spock’s cheeks might be a little green. 

“So? That’s the authentic way to go camping.”

“It is dirty,” Spock says quietly. The whole tent is quiet; the whole camping grounds are quiet, except for the occasional cricket or bird. Everyone’s settled down to their individual tents. Everything’s a pale, dark blue, and Jim lifts up the flap of his sleeping bag, shuffling over to climb in. It’s big enough for two. He reaches for the jacket he had earlier, draped across his bag, and he bundles it for a makeshift pillow. 

While he’s doing that, he teases, “So? It doesn’t effect you—it’s not like I’m going to kiss you with my dirty mouth.” He winks at Spock, before realizing belatedly that Spock might not understand the gesture. Though, he is half-human. He tentatively climbs into the sleeping bag next to Jim, and it’s a tight squeeze, but it works. Their sides touch. 

To give more room, Jim rolls onto his side. “Get your sweater; otherwise you’ll crick your neck.”

Spock says, “I am fine.” But Jim’s not so sure. 

So Jim just reaches over Spock, propped up on one arm, his entire body casting over, his stomach brushing Spock’s shoulder. Spock’s sweater is folded atop his bag, and Jim pulls it over, keeping it folded. He gently lifts up Spock’s head and slips the pillow under, while Spock is rigidly still beneath his fingers. 

As Jim pulls back and smiles, Spock mutters, “Thank you... Jim.” There’s something a little strange about the way he says it. It’s the first time he’s said Jim’s name, Jim thinks. 

Jim says, “You’re welcome, Spock.” And he sighs. 

For a moment, the two of them just lie there. The night air is slightly cool, but the sleeping bag’s warm. Spock’s mildly curled up, but he’s careful not to let his knees or feet hit Jim’s. Jim wants to entangle their legs. That’s natural whenever he gets in bed with anyone attractive, but... there’s something about Spock in particular. Jim’s always liked aliens. Or maybe it’s that Spock’s not so very foreign. Deep down, Jim thinks they’re the most similar on this trip, other than him and his mother. Spock’s... something different. 

Spock’s voice is deep but light, mellow and comforting. After a while, Spock says quietly, “Thank you for... defending me today.”

Jim nods. A serious look slips easily onto his face. “Don’t worry about them; I’ll keep them in check.” He means it. He shifts his hand a little closer, but Spock’s are under the blanket, and he’s not sure enough of where to be able to go fishing without being too creepy. He’s horny, but he’s never one to make someone else uncomfortable. “It sucks that you have to put up with people like that. ...Is it always that way on Vulcan...?”

Tilting his head slightly against his sweater, Spock says, “It is inevitable. But I believe I would not fair much better on Earth. I belong nowhere, and Vulcan is the closest to a home I have.”

That’s... really sad. Jim’s sure all Vulcans can’t be like Suval and Stonn, but even if just those two are, they’d make life hard. He says sincerely, “I’d be your friend on Earth.” And he really would. They’d probably be different types of people in some areas, but they’ve sort of clicked today. They seem to work so _well_ together that he’s sure they’d have some sort of fun. And Spock would be a big help when he needs to study to get into Starfleet, he can tell. He’d probably be a big help for Spock to learn more social skills too. 

When Spock doesn’t say anything else, Jim adds in a lower voice, thinking of earlier, “And I’m sorry about the ear thing. I was just mad. I really like your ears.” Spock lifts one measured eyebrow, so Jim insists, “Seriously. I do. I think they’re hot.” Which... probably wasn’t the right thing to say either. (Even though it’s completely true.) He can feel his cheeks warm slightly, and it makes him wonder if perhaps Spock thought he meant ‘high in temperature.’ Spock looks confused. 

He says very slowly, “You are... most illogical.”

“Thanks.” Spock looks even more confused, but it just came out. Jim wouldn’t want to be logical anyway. 

He shuffles a bit closer to Spock under the pseudo-blanket. There isn’t much room for that. Now their noses are almost touching, and he can feel Spock’s breath ghosting gently over him. He doesn’t miss the way Spock’s dark, sleep-heavy eyes flutter momentarily down to his lips. They do have a connection: he knows it. Every time Spock shifts in the sleeping bag, Jim can both hear it and feel it. With the dark tent walls around them, it feels so secure and intimate, just the two of them. Jim mumbles, “We’re going to have fun tomorrow.”

Spock doesn’t scold him on the concept of fun. Spock says, “You do not have to do anything for me.”

“I have to look out for my crew.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim says, “I’m going to be a starship captain someday. Both my parents were. My brother’s probably going to be. I’m going to be.” With a grin, he finishes, “I’m a leader like that, and I look out for my people.”

It takes Spock a moment to nod slowly, digesting this. It’s been Jim’s goal for a long time, and his mother says that if he applies himself, he could probably do it. She’d know. “What d’you wanna be?”

“...Something in the sciences, I believe. Joining Starfleet like my father had occurred to me, and it would offer the most opportunity to discover new scientific data.”

“Great. You’ll be in my crew.”

Spock simply frowns. Jim compensates on his own face, his smile growing. It’s always a fun thought, traipsing around the stars. Having at least one person at his side that he knows would make it even better. ...One of his greatest fears is being lonely. 

He thinks Spock’s fears might be similar in a different way. But then, Jim’s not entirely sure how Vulcan fears work. 

A few quiet seconds later, Spock’s fingers poke out the edge of the sleeping bag. 

Jim’s wrap around them, holding on as he murmurs, “Good night, Spock.”

Spock whispers back, “Good night, Jim.”

Jim falls asleep too soon.


	2. ~

When Jim wakes up, it’s not quite light out yet. It isn’t so dark as when he fell asleep, but the air’s still quiet, other than a few birds. He thinks he’s probably the first one up. He groans and shifts his legs. He kind of has to piss, but he could wait a few minutes. Right now, he’s still comfortable. 

His face is half buried in his pillow and half covered by his sleeping bag. There’s something very warm pressing against his back, and it takes him a minute to realize that’s not just blanket. He can feel air gentling slipping over the back of his neck. He nudges his legs back a little and runs into a pair of warm thighs. A smile twitches on his lips. Spock’s spooning him. There are no arms around him, but it’s close enough. Spock’s warm, skin—probably his curled up arms—slightly damp. Jim’s got his own sheen of minor sweat from the night. They must’ve slept too close. But he doesn’t want to crawl out of the sleeping bag. There’s something comforting about the stifling heat. 

He puts his hand over his mouth to cover his yawn and slowly shuffles around, as carefully as possible. He doesn’t want to wake his bedmate. He pulls his makeshift pillow a little closer, noting that Spock’s almost fallen off of his. Spock’s curled up, his dark hair messier and sliding against his forehead, jumbled above his pointed eyebrows. His lashes are dark and straight, eyelids slightly tinted the faintest blue. His bowed lips are parted just a bit. Jim settles in as close as possible, letting their legs touch and their noses almost bump. 

He feels kind of creepy, but he doesn’t know when else he’ll get this chance. It’s fascinating seeing aliens up close, noting all the tiny differences. Most of the time that uniqueness is interesting; on Spock, it’s alluring. Spock’s a special kind of beautiful that Jim didn’t know until just now. 

It must be strange to be so... different. From everyone. Jim can hardly imagine. He knows it must be lonely, and that’s the worst. Maybe Spock feels like how Jim felt when his brother left to live with their grandfather, or how Jim feels every time his mother goes away for a long mission. Only it’s all the time, and Spock’s mother’s never coming home. 

What’s Sarek like? He seems... Vulcan. Well, he can’t be that bad. He let Spock visit Earth. Maybe he’ll do it again. Jim reaches a hand out before he can stop it, gently threading his fingertips through Spock’s bangs. They’re thick and ridiculously soft. 

“Today’s going to be better,” Jim promises, too low for anyone else to hear. Spock doesn’t stir. 

Jim wonders if Vulcans dream.

* * *

Jim waits for Spock to wake up before they get dressed properly, tugging clothes on and yawning. Jim sort of feels like taking a shower, but he supposed the swims will suffice. He runs a hand through his hair to style it the way he likes after—nothing fancy. But as he does that, Spock’s combing down his own bowl-cut, taming all the stray signs of bed-head. He looks away from Jim during it, and Jim feels sort of like he’s intruding on some special, private ritual. 

Then he decides that’s silly, and he reaches over to drop his hand heavily onto Spock’s head, knocking the comb aside and mussing it all up. Spock’s head ducks under the weight, and the first seconds seem to have him in shock. After that, he shakes Jim’s hand away, looking over to scowl. The messy hair looks strange on him, and the whole picture just adds up to adorable. Spock’s adorable. Jim stifles his laughter and fishes a brush out of his own bag, and then he shuffles closer, sitting right down next to his victim. 

When he lifts the brush, Spock flinches warily away, but Jim says, “Sorry; let me help fix it.” And then he helps smooth it back down again, just the way Spock seems to like it. Or, the way that’s appropriate. That’s probably what he’d say. When it’s straight again, Jim tosses the brush aside and finger-combs the rest, just wanting to feel it. 

“I was not aware that group grooming was an acceptable practice on Earth,” Spock says, but he doesn’t push Jim away.

“Our ancestors did it,” Jim says, thinking of monkeys. “Now, only friends do it sometimes.” 

Spock glances sideways at Jim curiously, and Jim has no trouble saying, “We’re friends.” He half expects Spock to argue with him, but Spock merely finishes his hair. He’s just putting his comb away when Jim’s mother calls for them.

They emerge from their tent just as Suval and Stonn emerge from theirs, looking just as pristine as ever. The adults are all already sitting on the little log circle that’s become their gathering ground, looking patient and expectant. Jim and Spock take their place on one of the logs, and Jim’s mother, sitting next to Jim, passes wraps around. Jim turns his over and examines the inside, but again, it looks vegetarian. 

Are Vulcans vegan? They could still have eggs. Or cheese. But it just seems like there’s lettuce and spinach and some vegetables inside, coated in some sort of oil-based dressing. Jim takes the first bite and immediately hides his wince. It’s... not pleasant. 

He spares a glance at Spock out the corner of his eye, who’s holding the wrap awkwardly in his hands. Jim’s mother’s passing around cutlery and plates again, but she’s going the other way, and that would make Spock last to get any. 

So Jim fits his hand around Spock’s and lifts the wrap up, whispering too low for the others to notice, “Open up.”

Spock’s cheeks are flushed. He looks at Jim levelly and mutters, “Vulcans do not eat with their hands.”

Jim just grins. Humans do. He forces the wrap and Spock’s hands right up, and he repeats, “Open.” It’s like a gentle command. He doesn’t quite expect Spock to listen. 

But Spock parts his bow lips, letting them stretch wide, and Jim stares too hungrily as the wrap is pushed past the neat rows of teeth. There’s something young and fumbling about the way Spock’s lips enclose around the wrap, and Jim’s not sure if it’s cuter or hotter. Somewhere in between. He’s chewing when Jim’s mother gets to him, and she beams. “There you go!” She settles back down on Jim’s other side, and Spock looks adamantly at his food while the other Vulcans eye him, expressions blank but clearly simple fronts. Sarek, at least, can’t fault Spock for being human.

No one compliments Jim’s mother on the food. Vulcans don’t express gratitude often, apparently, and today, they all eat in silence. When T’Pern finishes hers, Jim’s mother asks, “How did you sleep last night?”

T’Pern seems to think for a moment, and then she says, “It was unusual but not entirely unpleasant.” Jim’s mother smiles.

“We are interested to know what other traditions are involved in this camping practice,” Sarek says as he finishes his, passing his plate back to be re-packed. There’s a pause in which Jim’s mother looks at him. He can tell she needs help thinking of what.

Jim says for her, “People often sing campfire songs when camping.” His mother snorts.

Several Vulcans raise their eyebrows. Sarek says a curt, “Fascinating.”

T’Paul asks stiffly, “How is this done?”

“You just... sing?” Jim shrugs. He’s not even sure how to explain something so simple. “Um, like, for example, with ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat,’ you just sing that starting at different times. So, I’ll sing ‘row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream,’” Jim mimics the tune while he says it before explaining, “And then you repeat that the same way, starting when I get to ‘boat.’ It’s really easy.”

“Life is not a dream,” Stonn says bluntly.

“The repetition... it’s meant to be poetic?” Suval sounds like he’s actually trying to understand, but there’s also a slight air of condescension to his voice. Jim looks at his mother for help.

“The lyrics aren’t important,” she half-laughs. “It’s about the harmony of singing together, of making a sort of symphony of just our voices.” After a long, awkward moment, Sarek nods. By now, everyone’s finished their food and gotten packed away in the discussion. “Would you like to try it?” She says it invitingly, as though trying to coax a cat out of a box.

“Very well,” T’Pern decides for the group. “Proceed. ...Though, how will we know when you wish us to participate?”

“I’ll point at you,” Jim’s mother suggests. Then she promptly begins to sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...” She goes through the chorus, and then she points at Sarek, who, very awkwardly and rigidly, begins to chant the same words in his dulcimer tones. It’s barely singing, but it’s still somewhat shocking to see. Jim can feel Spock’s surprise beside him. 

As Sarek hits the same point she did, Jim’s mother points to Jim, who hops in while Sarek is still going. Jim’s mother starts up again and passes it on to Suval. He clearly doesn’t want to participate, but a sidelong glance at his mother shows that he has to. Jim waits for it to be Spock’s turn.

When it is, it’s worth it. He ‘sings’ like his father. Jim closes his eyes and gets into their group effort, picking out Spock’s voice and letting it wash over him. Together, they all sound very human.

* * *

The adults are going bird watching, and Jim takes the other boys down by the water again, dressed to jump in. First they trace the outside, as Stonn declares that he’s hungry, and Jim’s not sure he could stomach another wrap. There’s an array of berry bushes everywhere, some naturally occurring and others clearly transplanted. It’s nearly impossible to find purely authentic camping grounds anymore, but this is fairly close. 

Near a large rock a few meters from where they came down, only a meter or two from the lake, Jim finds a set of brambles. He leads the group over, and Suval immediately decides, “Those are poisonous.”

“What?” Jim pauses mid-step, glancing around. “They’re blackberries. Why would you think they’re poisonous?”

Suval looks briefly confused before explaining, “The branches are covered in thorns. It is only natural to assume that that is nature’s way of telling humanoids not to eat them.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Jim says flatly. He tries to think of the real reasons thorns are there, but he really doesn’t have any idea. “They just have thorns.” Just because. There’s probably a reason. 

But blackberries are perfectly edible, and he reaches in between some vines to pull out a particularly large one. There’s a bee not too far away, but it’ll have to find a different berry. When Jim straightens out, he intends to give the berry to Spock, but Spock isn’t standing with them. He has to take a step around Suval to look—Stonn and Spock are a little ways away, talking quietly. His first instinct is to march over there and make sure Stonn’s not being an asshole.

Suval distracts him by asking, “How are they eaten?”

Jim blinks. It’s not complicated. He looks back at Suval while he pops the blackberry into his mouth, licking up a bit of the stray juice that trickled down his finger in the process. Suval’s eyes instantly flicker to Jim’s lips, and they linger there while Jim licks his lips and chews. Suval’s silent while Jim finishes his tiny meal, and then Suval says quietly, “Perhaps it would be more beneficial for you to sleep in my tent tonight.”

Jim raises an eyebrow instantly. That was not at all something he expected. “Beneficial?”

“Yes. It is not fair that you should be left with Spock. Furthermore, I believe you would be able to learn more of Vulcans from a true Vulcan. And perhaps I could learn from you as well...”

“Learn what?” It comes out suspicious. This is very surreal.

“Anatomy,” Suval answers smoothly. “We could learn more of either species’ biology and... other... very informative things...” The way his eyes are slowly raking Jim’s body is probably meant to be subtle, but it isn’t. 

Jim’s... sort of shell-shocked. 

If he didn’t know better, he’d think he were being propositioned. Maybe that’s not what Suval means initially, but Jim’s pretty sure that if he goes into that tent tonight, he’ll be able to get sex. He can’t tell if Suval’s including Stonn in this. Perhaps he’ll get a threesome. He can’t help it. His hormones immediately kick up, his imagination conjuring the image of himself sandwiched between two hot Vulcans, both naked and writhing around him, exploring his body with their careful hands and trying to map every part. Suval would be in front of Jim, because apparently, he _wants_ Jim, and he’d kiss Jim hard, and show Jim his Vulcan cock, alien and new. Stonn would kiss and touch Jim’s back all over, maybe rut into Jim’s ass, but Jim wouldn’t let Stonn take him—maybe he’d make them fuck each other while he watched, or while he sat in front of them and they both tried to lick and suck at his dick...

Jim’s gone for a good minute or so before he manages to turn Suval down with a semi-regretful, “Uhm, no thanks...” Because then Spock would be all alone. 

While Suval lifts an eyebrow, clearly about to argue the logic of choosing Spock over him, Jim collects another two berries. He puts one into his mouth just so he won’t say something stupid, and the other he carries back over to where Stonn and Spock are talking. They quiet down as soon as he gets to them, and Jim, still a little flushed, goes straight for Spock’s lips. He holds the berry up and tells Spock, “Say ‘ah.’”

Spock barely gets the ‘a’ out before Jim pops the berry into his open mouth. He freezes instantly. Jim lingers in pulling his finger back, purposely dragging across Spock’s bottom lip. Spock’s dark eyes are locked on Jim’s. 

Stonn ruins it by stating, “Vulcans do not eat with their fingers.”

“He didn’t use his fingers,” Jim retorts without looking over; he’s fixated on Spock, like Spock’s fixated on him. “I did.”

There’s an awkward sort of pause, wherein Spock seems to decide he has no choice but to eat the berry. He sucks it in and chews softly, and Jim watches the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Stonn looks at Suval while this happens, and though Jim isn’t watching, he’s sure Suval’s communicating that Jim turned him down. There goes his Vulcan sandwich.

It wouldn’t be any good without the Vulcan he wants anyway. He slips his fingers down into Spock’s and announces, “Come on. Let’s find some strawberries for me to feed you.”

* * *

Suval and Stonn return to swimming laps, and Spock follows Jim out across the river. They trace the perimeter again, Jim in the lead and Spock taking up the rear. Jim has the ridiculous thought that if they were superheroes, Jim would be the one in charge and Spock would be his faithful sidekick. ...And Stonn and Suval would be their evil nemeses. And Jim’s mother would be the mayor of the town that would call them in every time something went wrong. 

By the time they get to a shore a little ways past their dive point, Jim’s snickering uncontrollably. Spock doesn’t ask. That’s probably for the best. Jim doesn’t mention the incident with Suval either. A few minutes more of mindless swimming, and there’s a general raucous off to their right. A young couple is setting up a tent while a child, probably six or seven, goes wading into the water. The mother yells for him not to go too far, and the child calls, “Come play catch with me, Mum!”

“Mommy’s helping Daddy set up the tent,” the man answers. The child scowls at them, holding a big rubber ball and now trying to push it underwater, as if out of spite.

Jim glances over at Spock, but he’s not really asking a question. He swims over to the young boy with Spock hesitantly following him, and he says, “Hi, how’re you?”

“Bored,” the kid says instantly. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Jim, and this is Spock. We’ll play catch with you if your mom and dad are okay with it.”

“I’m Bobby,” the boy says, brightening instantly. He’s slightly on the chubby side with thick brown hair and light freckles, and he turns around to call, “Mum! I don’t need you anymore! I made new friends!”

Both parents stop what they’re doing, and Jim sticks his hand out of the water to wave. The mother waves and calls, “That’s nice, dear.” Then she goes back to setting up the tent.

Spock asks quietly behind him, “Is this alright?”

“No one ever suspects a Vulcan,” Jim laughs, which is probably true. If he had a kid, he wouldn’t worry about a Vulcan being a bad influence on it. Besides, they don’t have a ball, and they could use a bit of fun. The boy swims a little ways back, dragging his big blue-and-white ball with him. Then he tosses the ball right for Jim, and Jim has to jump a bit out of the water to catch it. The boy’s aim isn’t bad, just shaky. Jim sinks down, tossing it over to Spock, who catches it gracefully.

Spock holds the ball above the water for a few seconds before Bobby says, “I’m open!”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Stifling a snort, Jim says, “Toss the ball to him, Spock.” Spock glances at Jim once, but listens. 

Jim feels compelled to tell Bobby, “Sorry; he’s Vulcan.”

“Oh!” Bobby says, eyes widening. “We read about those in school! You’re an alien?” Before Spock can answer, Bobby continues with his face scrunched up, “Is that why your ears look funny?” Jim just barely stops himself from laughing, and he glances sideways, not sure if that’ll hurt Spock’s feelings. “You look like a goblin.” Spock’s lips go tight. 

Jim tries to distract Bobby by asking, “Can you pass me the ball?”

“Yes!” Bobby throws the ball in what he clearly thinks is a fast, difficult manner, like pitching a baseball. But Jim catches it easy, tossing it back to Spock. Spock tosses it lightly to Bobby, who passes it back to Jim and asks, “Are you guys camping together?”

“Yup.” Jim tosses the ball to Spock, and he passes it to Bobby, who somehow manages to miss the dead-on throw. It slips right through his fingers, and Bobby scrambles to pick it up, blushing. 

“It’s wet and slippery!” he says. Jim nods, and Spock doesn’t say anything. Bobby throws it back and asks, “Are you together like Mum and Dad?”

When Jim tosses the ball to Spock, he gets a full view of Spock’s slight green-tinted blush. Spock opens his mouth and hesitates, and Jim takes advantage of that hesitation by answering on a whim, “Yup. Just like your mom and dad.” Because why not? They’ll probably never see this kid again.

He asks instantly, “What’s your kid going to be?”

“I don’t know,” Jim laughs, turning to Spock. “What kind of child do we want, honey?” The look Spock gives him is a restrained mix of confusion and horror. Jim’s aware of the idiom that Vulcans don’t lie. Maybe they don’t understand lies. Spock, at least, doesn’t understand why Jim would about this; it’s clear all over his face. But Jim’s just having fun. It’s his turn with the ball, and he decides to switch the circle up, passing it back to Bobby before arbitrarily deciding, “We’re hoping for a girl, but we’ll be happy with anything.”

“Yuck.” Bobby throws the ball at Spock so lopsidedly that Spock has to dive sideways, and he just barely catches it with one hand. “Girls are gross.”

Jim snorts. He can remember feeling that way, but the opposite sentiment came back at him tenfold later. Rather than tell his exploits to a child, he just jokes, “I couldn’t agree more.” Spock looks at him in more shock, and Jim gives him a firm look that should hopefully dictate he’ll explain more later.

They’re back to playing quietly for a few minutes, before Bobby’s mother wades in. She holds her arms out, and Jim tosses her the ball. She’s a pretty young woman, with dyed-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a pink bikini. Jim doesn’t mind older women, but he doesn’t hit on married ones. And for some reason, she doesn’t seem as appealing as she normally would. Maybe it’s because he has Spock clinging to his side, probably trying to get him to go back. 

“We fixed the tent,” the mother tells Bobby before telling Jim and Spock, “Thanks for playing with him.”

“No problem.” Jim smiles at her and waves to Bobby.

Bobby says, “Come back and play with me later!” But he’s already gone into a bit of water volleyball with his mother. 

Spock starts heading back before Jim does, and Jim follows.

They get about halfway back before Spock stops suddenly, turning to tell Jim, “We are not having a child.” Somehow, it comes out a bit like a question.

Jim could explain the complexity of white lies and jokes to Spock, but it’s easier just to wiggle his eyebrows and say, “Not yet.”

Before Spock can answer, Jim swims in front to gain the lead again.

* * *

The air’s a pleasant sort of lukewarm as Jim leaves the water, Spock right behind him. There’s no sign of Stonn and Suval, who must’ve gone back. Probably to have hot Vulcan sex, however that works. Or at least, that’s what Jim likes to think. Or maybe they’re just sitting around being logical and boring. 

In that brief moment Jim’s lost in his own head, his foot hits a rock, and as he swears loudly, his heel digs back into a patch of mud. Slipping, Jim doesn’t have time to stop himself from falling—he crashes backwards into Spock and takes the two of them down the sloped hill. Jim’s fall is cushioned by Spock’s torso, but Spock lands on his ass, arms back. Jim’s sprawled atop him. For a moment, he’s too busy taking inventory of all the places that sting to move. 

Then he’s shuffling off, sitting between Spock’s legs and asking, “Sorry—are you okay?”

Spock nods right away. But then he winces and picks up his hand, which he must’ve cut on a rock. There’s a thin slice near the top, oozing green blood. “I seem to have cut myself.” Spock stares at it as though contemplating what to do. He clearly isn’t naturally suited to the woods. 

But that’s what he has Jim for. Without even thinking, Jim reaches over and wraps his fingers around Spock’s wrist, pulling Spock’s hand closer. He opens his mouth and brings Spock’s wounded digit up, and he pops it slowly inside. It tastes slightly salty and slightly metallic. But it’s not bad. Jim’s lips wrap around the base, brushing Spock’s knuckle, and he sucks gently. His tongue laps over the wound, cleaning it up. He looks up at Spock, who’s cheeks are the greenest they’ve been yet, lips slightly parted, eyes searching and dilated. 

Spock breathes, “What are you doing?” It’s so quiet, like a secret. The moment’s become intimate. Jim gently pulls off Spock’s finger, sucking on his way out to catch any more blood.

“It’s a human custom,” Jim mumbles, which is half true. Parents do it sometimes. Young men don’t usually do it to each other. Unless...

They’re sitting _so_ close, with Spock’s legs wide around him, Spock’s swim trunks ruffled from the fall and clinging to his legs from the water. Both of their bodies are glistening, and the warm afternoon sun is bathing Spock’s pale skin in a gorgeous golden glow. His bangs are slicked down to his forehead, his hair even flatter than usual. He looks sleek and lithe and like something magic and exotic, something that makes all the little hairs on the back of Jim’s neck stand on end. Jim shifts one of his hands, and it only takes a few centimeters to put it on Spock’s knee. Spock shivers. One of Spock’s hands lifts, hesitates mid air, and lands on Jim’s shoulder, index and middle finger held tightly together. As they ghost down Jim’s bicep, something soft and wonderful runs through Jim’s body. He might be trembling. Spock’s eyes are lowered, lashes half down. He’s so _beautiful_.

Jim doesn’t know how he’s resisted this long. He brings his other hand up to Spock’s cheek, and he cups it, holds it in place, smudging a little bit of dirt there, thumb brushing Spock’s silk-satin skin while Jim leans closer—

“Spock?” 

It’s Sarek’s voice, coming from the direction of their camp. It’s not exactly raised, but it’s enough that Jim has time to pull back before Sarek appears around the dirt path, eyes instantly glancing down at them. Caught off guard and irked and thoroughly disappointed, Jim says stupidly, “I fell.”

Lifting an elegant eyebrow, Sarek asks, “Are you unharmed?”

Jim nods. “Spock caught me.”

He climbs back to his feet, pulling Spock up with him.

* * *

All of the Vulcans head to the ranger station for lunch, hence Sarek looking for him. Jim stays with his mother, and Spock doesn’t look at him while they leave. 

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Jim asks, “Why aren’t we eating at the ranger station?”

“Because they’re driving me mildly insane,” Jim’s mother answers bluntly, already searching her food pack for turkey sandwiches. She passes one to Jim while she sighs, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate getting this mission, and it is interesting in some aspects, but... I just needed a break. So I suggested they go check the station out.” Her voice turns a little sympathetic as she asks, “How are you doing?”

“Good,” Jim says, meaning it now that he’s got his hands around food a little more up his alley. He climbs onto the log with her and starts eating immediately, having to converse with a full mouth around bites. “But I know what you mean—Stonn and Suval are really annoying.”

Jim’s mother nods thoughtfully. Normally, Jim wouldn’t dare insult ambassadors’ children around her, but as she started it, he figures he’s safe. She takes a bite of her own sandwich and muses, “I have noticed you seem to be spending most of your time with Spock. I hope that’s not because he’s half human.”

“Mom!” Jim barks instantly. “Spock’s just... I don’t know. But I like him. And you know I like aliens!”

“I know,” she chuckles, and she must; Jim does have a tendency to gravitate towards the extraterrestrial. He’s dated almost as many aliens as humans, which is no small feat when planet-bound. ...He hasn’t dated any alien men yet, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it. Jim doesn’t believe in dating limits. Another few bites, and his mother asks, “Do you even like Bolians?”

Jim laughs. They are a friendly lot in general. “I especially like Bolians, until someone mentions a deer.”

She joins him in laughing. Somehow, the force of her laughter makes his harder, until he’s nearly choking on sandwich and almost doubling over. 

Then there’s a sudden bout of rustling off to their left—both of them look around—a bush is trembling. Holding his breath, Jim whispers, “Holy shit—we summoned a deer!”

“You have powers,” Jim’s mother whispers back spookily, clearly needing some silliness as a break from all the logic. 

But it’s a squirrel that darts out a second later. It flicks its big bushy tail and twitches over to a nut, which it picks up and begins to crack away at, eying them warily. Jim breaks off a piece of his sandwich and holds it out, but the squirrel darts back into the bush.

* * *

The Vulcans don’t come back until dinner, and that’s probably a good thing, as Jim and his mother have been playing x’s and o’s for the past ten minutes, and he’s tired of getting his ass kicked. “This is why you don’t play strategy games with a Starfleet admiral,” she tells him proudly. Jim didn’t know x’s and o’s was such a strategy game.

As soon as the Vulcans arrive, they fan out around the empty fire pit, taking their places back on the logs as though they haven’t been gone at all. Jim’s sitting further away than usual. It was so he could be across from his mother for their games, but he gets up as soon as Suval sits down next to him. He ignores Suval’s frown and wanders back over to Spock’s place. Jim’s mother asks as she starts to make the fire, “Did you have a good time?”

“It was informative,” T’Paul answers for the group. “We were given a brief tour of the surroundings and were able to make use of their limited facilities.”

Jim can’t help but frown there—so much for having a chance at catching Spock pissing in the woods. Well, it could still happen later. Jim’s mother shifts the wood around once she gets a small flame going, the tiny tendrils not even close to licking the rocks circled around the edge. It takes a bit of stoking to get it high enough to do anything. It’s a welcome heat; Jim’s still in his swim trunks, and the air is cooling down. The other boys are all wearing their towels like robes. Judging from what the adults are wearing, robes are standard on Vulcan.

Jim’s passed condiments to circulate, and buns and veggie dogs are pulled out again. The last to come are the plates and cutlery, and Jim’s mother asks, “Does everyone still need utensils?” She looks hopefully at Spock, but he’s blank-faced. 

T’Pern answers for the group: “Yes.”

So Jim’s mother passes them out, along with metal tongs, while Jim searches around for a decent stick and skewers his veggie dog. Dinner is passed mostly in silence, broken here and there by small chitchat amongst the adults. Jim goes through three veggie dogs before his mother announces that it’s time for dessert and scolds Jim for not saving room. Jim insists he has room, because there’s _always_ room for dessert.

Dessert turns out to be s’mores, which Jim is all too happy to take. Jim’s mother once again circulates the food while Jim shows Spock: “See, you break off a square of chocolate and put it with the marshmallow between two graham wafers.” Jim holds the finished product out for inspection. 

Spock says only, “Odd.”

“It’s an old tradition,” Jim explains. “You can get Synthesizer chips of them now, or even graham wafers that come with the flavour, or flavoured ice cream like it, but it’s never quite the same, y’know?” Spock looks like he doesn’t know. Jim pulls his marshmallow out anyway. 

“Why are you disassembling it?”

“I was just showing you how to put it together; you have to toast your marshmallow first.” He sticks it on the end of his stick, still draped across his lap. The firelight is casting a warm, yellowish haze over them. Since Spock’s hesitant, Jim offers, “Give me your marshmallow. I’ll toast it for you.”

After a second’s hesitation, Spock does. Their fingers brush as Jim takes it, and he pops it onto the stick above his own. He’s sticking it back into the fire while Jim’s mother is still explaining the concept to the others. They all seem engrossed in what she’s saying, but Sarek’s eyes do stray over. Jim adamantly looks away. Not for the first time, he vaguely wonders what Sarek thinks of Jim and Spock wandering off together. Would he take it as well as Jim’s mother, or pick on Spock for being human like the others, or perhaps congratulate Spock on his diplomatic prowess...? Somehow, the latter doesn’t seem likely, but Jim doesn’t really know what _is_ likely. 

“This is unhygienic,” Spock says beside him.

Jim shrugs. “People have been doing it for hundreds of years.”

“That hardly counters my analysis,” Spock retorts. 

Glancing sideways, Jim decides to play hardball. “Are you forfeiting your marshmallow?”

Spock’s cheeks turn a little green, and he insists, “You are going to burn them.”

Jim would snap back, but Spock’s right. He pulls the stick back, peeling the top marshmallow off and holding it out. It takes Spock a second to realize what to do and get his graham wafer and chunk of chocolate ready, held out with his hands. There’s really no way to eat s’mores without one’s hands. Jim isn’t even bothering to look at how the others are faring. He peels his own off and deposits his stick back in his lap, putting his own miniature sandwich together. Spock’s waiting for him. Jim mumbles, “You just eat it.” And he shoves half of it into his mouth unceremoniously, the crackers instantly giving way to crumbs. They tumble into his lap, and Jim pays them no mind. It’s delicious. Sweet and toasty and classic. He smiles at Spock around his mouthful, and Spock tentatively opens his mouth, ready to do the same. 

As soon as the s’more gets to his mouth, a trickle of marshmallow slips out onto his finger, and Spock’s tongue darts out to lap at it. Jim stares at the way Spock licks himself clean, tongue running along the seam of the s’more after, packing everything into place. Jim’s trunks feel a little tight. There’s something absolutely sinful about the way Spock’s lips lock around his wafer, stretched wide and pink in the firelight. The s’more crumbles on contact, just like Jim’s did, and Spock doesn’t seem nearly as content to let it be messy—his tongue gets busy trying to catch every last crumb. Jim stares in awe at the way Spock nibbles and licks his way through the sugary confection, until there’s nothing left to do but lick his fingers bare. 

Jim’s trunks are definitely tight. He shifts his thighs to hopefully hide it, and he looks over at his mother to ask for more ingredients. He catches Sarek’s eyes on the way, watching him. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

He eats the next s’more just as messily, and Spock stares at him just as much.

* * *

The second night is just as quiet and peaceful as the first. They get undressed, they slip into bed in just boxers, they sleep facing away from each other and don’t say a word. It’s dark outside, but the light of the fire doesn’t disappear for another ten minutes or so—the ambassadors were still talking. Jim wonders if they’re actually getting any business done on this trip. 

Jim’s getting a lot done. He’s learning about Vulcans, and he thinks he’s learning a bit about himself too, even if nothing’s in solid, conscious realizations. He isn’t the sort of person to think everything out so much as go with the flow. Jim’s finding himself wanting more and more to just flow where Spock is. 

About a dozen more minutes pass, and it’s too quiet. It isn’t cold, but Jim wants to be warmer. He can’t hold back as much as he should. He rolls over, reaching out for Spock. Spock’s still facing away, but Jim sidles up to his warm back, arms slipping around Spock’s sides. He listens for the sounds of Spock’s breathing; he thinks Spock’s still awake. 

He wants to say something. But he doesn’t know what. And he doesn’t want to break the magic. So he just locks his hands as tightly around Spock as he can, waiting for Spock to protest. 

Spock doesn’t. Spock doesn’t say a word. Jim nuzzles into the back of Spock’s neck; Spock’s hair smells faintly of something exotic and close to vanilla. Jim breathes it in. He presses his lips forward, and he kisses Spock’s shoulder. 

He can feel Spock tense slightly in his arms, but otherwise, Spock doesn’t move. He still doesn’t say anything. Jim kisses him again. Jim starts littering his neck in tiny, kittenish licks and closed-mouthed kisses, and he works his way up Spock’s jaw line, reaching the curve of Spock’s ears. He wants to tell Spock that that kid was stupid; Vulcan ears are sexy. Or maybe Jim just does have some kind of weird alien fetish. He nips at the shell and works his way to the pointed tip, kissing it and sucking it into his mouth. Spock makes a faint gasping sound not far from a moan. Jim’s grip tightens. His cock’s half hard. He desperately wants to rut into Spock’s ass, but he doesn’t want to molest Spock. He’s sure Spock can feel the outline of his erection, but Spock hasn’t stopped him. It reminds him that Spock hasn’t said yes, either. 

Jim forces himself to break away from Spock’s ear and whisper, “ _Spock._ ”

There’s a second’s pause that Spock fills with a shaky breath, before he asks, “Why are you stopping?”

It’s a good thing it’s dark and Spock’s not looking at Jim. His grin probably makes him look like a complete creeper. He nuzzles into Spock’s hair again and asks, “Is this okay?”

More hesitation. Jim lets Spock take the time he needs. Jim forces himself to be still, to not wildly hump Spock like he wants to, to not devour every part of Spock he can reach. 

Finally, Spock murmurs, “I... I wish to attain the full human experience during this visit.” It’s so clearly an _excuse,_ from the idea itself to the way Spock says it. But Jim lets Spock cling to that if he needs to. Jim lets his hand run lower down Spock’s stomach, and his fingers slow to a crawl when he reaches the hem of Spock’s boxers. He kisses Spock’s neck again. He’s waiting for Spock to stop him. 

Spock’s fingers wrap around Jim’s, soft and long. They take Jim’s the rest of the journey, dipping beneath the hem. There, Spock shivers and slips his hand away, coming back up to the hold the one still wrapped around his chest. Jim’s fingers are brushing Spock’s pubic hair. He can’t see anything like this: just darkness, Spock’s shoulder, and the side of the tent. He sees with his fingers, mapping the area. He pulls back to thread his fingers through the coarse hair, tugging gently before drifting on. When he reaches the base of what must be Spock’s dick, Jim groans and buries his face in Spock’s shoulder. Spock’s making a fluttering, gasping sound and arching, fingers tightening around Jim’s. Jim lifts his a bit and strokes across Spock’s chest, trying to find Spock’s nipples. He’s seen them while they were swimming—small and dusty brown and perfect. He wonders if they’ll pebble like a human’s under stimulation. He finds one and rubs it with one finger while his other hand wraps around the base of Spock’s dick, squeezing once, lightly. 

Spock _moans,_ a filthy, guttural sound, and he arches sensuously and tilts his head back to press his face into Jim’s. Jim kisses Spock’s cheek. He wants to say that it’s alright, but a second later, he knows he doesn’t need to; Spock actually humps his hand. Somehow, he didn’t think that would happen. He thought Spock would be more... dry... in bed. But Spock’s control seems to have snapped, and he’s trembling in Jim’s grasp, and one of his hands reaches backwards to stroke Jim’s side. It’s Jim’s turn to shiver. Spock’s hand slips down to his ass, squeezing his closest cheek through his boxers, and Jim moans, pressing his hips forward into Spock. Spock’s ass ruts back into his cock. Jim grunts, rewarding Spock with another squeeze. 

When he finally gets his head working, Jim brings his hand down Spock’s length, noting every slight bump—probably veins—and the hard line along the underside, the smooth skin everywhere else and the curve of the tip, topped in a tiny hole. It’s hard to tell like this, but Jim thinks Spock might be slightly longer than him, if a tiny bit thinner. He presses his thumb against the hole at the top, and Spock mewls in a high-pitched, erotic way. Jim plays with it a few times before reaching back down, finding and cupping Spock’s balls. They’re small and incredibly taut, tight and soft. Jim holds them and squeezes very, very carefully, just to test the waters—Spock’s hand squeezes Jim’s ass in response. Spock’s hands are fiddling with his waistband, clearly trying to get under it. 

Jim nips Spock’s ear again and purrs, “Do you want to touch me?”

“ _Yesss,_ ” Spock hisses instantly, so gorgeously that Jim has to will himself not to come. Spock’s dick is rapidly hardening in his hands. His own is fully there. Their tent is now impossibly warm, and Jim feels like he’s surrounded by steam. He runs his tongue along the back of Spock’s ear again, wishing he had more of Spock to kiss. 

He murmurs, “I love your ears.” He nibbles the tip to show it, and Spock’s voice breaks. “They’re so hot...” Jim’s definitely got an alien fetish. 

But he’d take half-human Spock over the other two Vulcans any day. He can’t entirely explain why, but he just _wants_ Spock, inexplicably and intoxicatingly; no one else will do. Jim’s fucked way more people than a teenager should’ve, but Spock’s the one that feels the most right in his arms. By now he’s pebbled both of Spock’s nipples, and he’s pumping Spock’s cock up and down, just like he would his own, and Spock seems to like it. Jim wants to feel every bit of Spock, and he abruptly tugs Spock over, shifting back to make room to push him onto his back. Jim’s on top of him again immediately, straddling his hips with an arm to either side of his shoulders. 

Spock looks up at Jim like some debauched angel, flushed and foggy-eyed and breathing too hard. Jim has to take a moment just to _stare_ at him.

Spock licks his lips and mumbles, “We have to be quiet.”

Jim nods. He doesn’t know what his mother would say if she caught him defiling an ambassador’s son. He doesn’t know what Sarek would say if he caught Jim stealing his son’s innocence. ...Jim doesn’t want to ask if Spock’s a virgin. He wants to pretend. Maybe he is; Vulcans seem uptight. But then, Suval seemed fairly keen...

Spock’s very keen. He lifts up on his elbows suddenly, tilting his lips and hesitating just a centimeter away from Jim’s mouth. Jim can taste Spock’s breath, still sweet from the s’mores. Jim pushes forward the extra way, sealing them together. 

Spock tastes fucking _delicious_. Jim’s on him in a heartbeat, kissing him hard and pressing him back, until he’s grinding Spock into the ground and kissing Spock down into their makeshift pillows. Spock opens his mouth right away for Jim’s tongue, and Jim hungrily sweeps through every part of Spock’s mouth, claiming and taking everything he wants. Spock’s clearly inexperienced, but he’s eager and he’s warm. He kisses Jim back with just as much fervor. Every time their teeth or their noses bump, they simply reposition. Jim’s practically in heaven. His whole front’s flattened into Spock’s, his boxers rubbing against Spock’s, their tongues constantly intertwined. Jim threads one hand into Spock’s hair to hold Spock’s head in, and the other runs down Spock’s body, trying to push Spock’s boxers down. 

“ _Oh._ ” Spock parts their lips just long enough to gasp, and Jim keeps kissing—kisses his cheek, the side of his nose, his chin. Both of Spock’s hands snake down to tug at either side of Jim’s boxers, and Jim shifts to try and help, pushing his own down his thighs. Then he lifts up to look down—he has to see this. He’s gotten Spock’s boxers down just enough for Spock’s dick to be out, jutting proudly up towards Jim, the side brushing Jim’s and making him shiver. It’s hard to see in the very dim light, but it looks similar to a human cock. It’s easier to compare with Jim’s right beside it. Spock’s is a slightly different hue, a little more yellow, and it’s slightly more curved and smoother, lighter, prettier. It doesn’t have a mushroom head like Jim’s, but it doesn’t look like an uncircumcised human cock, either—something in between. When he glances back up to Spock’s face, Spock’s looking aside, clearly embarrassed. 

Jim growls, “You’re fucking gorgeous,” and he slams his hips against Spock’s hard enough to make Spock arch up and groan. Jim has to kiss him again to stop him from being too vocal. A Vulcan being too vocal. It’s an odd concept, but evidently, Jim’s pulling Spock out of his shell. 

Jim wants to fuck Spock so badly it hurts. He’d take Spock fucking him instead. But he knows he wouldn’t last that long, and he doesn’t have lube, and it might be too fast—even though this is all too fast—they just met yesterday. But Jim feels like he’s known Spock forever. He ruts into Spock’s crotch while Spock mirrors the motion, the two of them humping each other like animals. They’re kissing desperately, and then Spock’s suddenly rolling them over so he’s on top, and they’re tight against the edge of the sleeping bag, and Jim’s back’s straight along the floor. Spock’s hands are all over him, fingers together in that strange way, tracing every curve and stretch of Jim’s body. Jim holds onto Spock’s hair and waist, refusing to let him go. He lets Spock get a few thrusts in before he rolls them back over again, and he kisses Spock twice as hard, twice as fierce, the fire in him only getting stronger. 

He could do this forever. He wishes he could. But it’s too much—and then Spock’s breaking. Spock’s kiss turns into a long, languid moan, body going instantly rigid, fingers tightening in Jim’s shoulders, legs reaching up to wrap around Jim’s body. Jim lets himself be cocooned, surrounded by Spock, while Spock’s dick spills a warm, sticky liquid all across his stomach. It’s that dampness between them more than anything that makes Jim’s balls tighten, and he’s coming a second later. His load shoots all up Spock’s stomach, and he keeps grinding while he does it, milking his orgasm out. His head’s exploding, and his skin’s so hot that he thinks he might be shaking, might be about to pass out. Spock won’t stop kissing him. Spock’s hands find his, pulling his free before he’s done, fingers entwining. When Jim’s done, he collapses. 

His head’s in a state of utter bliss, and it takes him a moment just to catch his breath. He stays draped over Spock’s body, and Spock keeps holding his hands hostage. Jim’s head is over Spock’s shoulder, and Spock nuzzles into it. 

A few more dizzy seconds pass, and Spock sighs, “I enjoy your round ears, as well.” Jim chuckles. 

Jim doesn’t want to move.

But he has to, and eventually, he rolls off, fishing around their messy floor for his towel. He tugs it out and pushes the sleeping bag cover down so he can wipe off both of their stomachs. There’s something oddly fun about cleaning Spock up, and he does it with a loving sort of care. Spock stares sleepily up at Jim during it, a smile just barely tugging at the side of his lips. Given how little Spock ever smiles, Jim’s taking that as a huge victory. 

When he’s done, he folds the towel up. He’ll have to deal with it tomorrow. For now, he snuggles back into the sleeping bag, pulling his boxers up and reaching over to help pull up Spock’s. 

Then he kisses Spock again, just to make sure this is real. 

Spock kisses back, then rolls promptly over, tugging Jim’s arm with him. He places Jim’s arm firmly around his stomach and settles in, while Jim grins into the back of his neck and feels just generally perfect.


	3. ~

Jim wakes up to the harsh pitter-patter of rain battering the plastic, curved roof of their tent. He’s on his back, and for a second, he just stares up at the shifting shadows. It’s vaguely pretty. 

As feeling seeps into his body, Jim yawns, coming to. He turns his head slightly, landing next to Spock’s face and unable to move. Spock’s curled up against him, half on top of him, an arm over his chest, a leg over his, and Spock’s head on his shoulder. Jim’s arm is outstretched past that, acting as a pillow. He lifts his hand up, bring it over to land on Spock’s sweat-slicked hair. They’re both sweatier than yesterday, but then, that’s how they went to sleep. His arm’s half asleep. 

Jim smiles groggily. That’s going to be a fun memory. He didn’t have morning wood, but he’s getting there. He has to will himself not to think of Spock moaning and rutting into him; it’s not as safe to mess around in the morning. What if his mother comes to wake them up? Or worse, Sarek? Or any of the others, really. They need more privacy. Jim vaguely wishes he’d met Spock at a five-star resort, simply so they could have a hotel room to slink away to and lock the door. 

But there’s something raw and genuine about the woods, and this makes it more of an adventure. He wishes he could take Spock on all his adventures. It’s fun to show Spock around, and Spock would probably be a help in his own way. When Jim becomes a captain, he thinks he’d like Spock on his team. 

For now, Spock’s still sleeping. His breathing’s even and soft, his cheek warm against Jim’s chest. Jim briefly considers waking him; this is their last day, and they should talk as much as possible. 

This is their last day. 

That thought suddenly hits home, and Jim’s frowning in a heartbeat. He just met Spock. It’s too soon to have it over. 

Jim’s arm tightens around Spock, cushioning Spock’s head and lightly petting Spock’s hair. Jim’s chin ducks down as much as he can so he can nuzzle into Spock. He wants to roll his whole body over and snuggle into Spock, but he also doesn’t want to wake Spock. He ends up lying still. Maybe he can convince Sarek to do this again sometime. 

Screw it. His back’s too stiff. He tries to shift as subtly as possible, slipping free. Spock inevitably makes a grunting noise. Jim rolls onto his side as Spock’s lashes flutter before creaking open, and Jim’s already curling up to him, pulling him close. 

Jim rubs his nose against Spock’s and murmurs, “G’morning.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow like he doesn’t understand the sentiment. Or, more likely, the need to voice the sentiment. Or maybe Jim slurred too much. But Spock’s stern look is broken by a sudden yawn. 

Jim uses that opening to snuggle even closer into him. He’s only half surprised when Spock starts to snuggle back, and together they find the optimum position, comfortable but touching in as many places as possible. Jim’s sure he has morning breath, but he wants to kiss Spock anyway. But then, that would probably get them going. And it’s not safe to get into anything right now. They can’t leave, either. The downpour would get them. Jim didn’t bring an umbrella. It only makes sense to stay trapped in here, alone with just the two of them, curled up as tightly as possible. 

There’re a lot of things Jim would say if he were more awake. There’re things he wants to ask, things he wants to know. What Spock wants to do with his life, where Spock’s going to go, what he thinks of this whole thing and if he’d like to come back to Earth sometime. What Vulcan’s like. What Spock’s like, outside of this. What is he studying, what is he interested in, what does he do with his spare time? But Spock’s eyes are closed again; he’s clearly tired. 

Jim just mumbles, “I hate that this is our last day.” He closes his eyes too, not expecting an answer. He can feel Spock’s breath on him, and it’s not as stale as Jim’s tastes. He creaks an eye open again when Spock’s hand creeps along his arm, searching for his hand, slipping their fingers back together. Spock holds them together like that, and it feels just as intimate as when they were naked together. 

Spock whispers, “Me too.”

Jim’s beaming. 

He slips back to sleep to the steady rhythm of the rain and Spock’s buried heartbeat.

* * *

It’s still raining. Jim’s mother comes by after not too long, lifting up their tent flap and kneeling down, tucked safely under an umbrella. She passes them bowls of cereal and a carton of rice milk, which he stares at her for, but she says, “It’s for the guests. Anyway, I think we’re all just going to stay in until the rain stops. Do you boys need anything?”

Nothing Jim can ask his mother for. So he simply glances at Spock, who says for him, “I believe we are well, thank you.” Jim’s mother smiles at them and disappears from view, the tent flap dropping behind her. Jim puts his bowl down on the sleeping bag and zips it back up while Spock takes a bite of cereal.

Jim turns around as soon as he’s done, pulling the bowl out of Spock’s hands and muttering, “No, no, no; that’s not how you do it.” Spock lifts an eyebrow and swallows. 

“There is a spoon. I assumed...”

“You put milk on it first,” Jim explains, and he pops the lid off the small, square carton, tipping it over Spock’s bowl and watching the generic flakes fill up. He passes it back to Spock after and fills his own the same way. Spock waits to watch him eat, and after the first bite, Jim explains through his mouthful, “You have to eat it fast, or it’ll get soggy.”

Spock nods and begins to eat again. Jim notes his expression, which doesn’t change. Apparently the cereal is neither good nor bad to him. It’s about the same way to Jim, although the milk is strange. But he’s hungry, and he’s never been that picky with food. He’ll take it. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes before Spock asks, “What are your intentions for the future?”

This is such a broad and sudden question that all Jim manages to say is, “I suppose I intend to steadily age and continue breathing.” Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim snorts, “A joke, sorry.”

After shrugging and eating a bit more cereal, Jim decides to share, “I want to be a starship captain. Like my father. So I suppose I’ll be going to Starfleet Academy and then... just generally working towards that, I guess.” He’s sure Spock has a much stricter plan than that, and he adds in an attempt to just be more interesting, “I want to explore and go on adventures for a living. See what’s out there, you know?”

To his mild surprise, Spock says, “I have some idea.” A few more bites and he’s done his cereal. There’s some milk left at the bottom of the bowl, and he looks at Jim for guidance.

“Just drink it,” Jim says, meaning from the bowl, but of course, Spock simply chips away at it in spoonfuls. “...What’re you going to do?”

“I am interested in the sciences,” Spock says, and it’s every bit as broad and general as what Jim said. ...Jim wants to ask if that includes a starship, but then, he doesn’t want to be too stalker-y. Maybe he just wants to hope anyway. To think of it his way. But Spock ruins it by continuing slowly, “I had considered serving on a Vulcan science vessel. My father is well connected and would probably be able to secure an internship for me, which I believe would be most fascinating.”

Actually, it sounds dull as hell. But Jim nods anyway, trying to be encouraging. “Good luck.”

Spock says, “You as well,” but it comes out half-hearted. Maybe Vulcans don’t believe in luck. Probably not. 

Then Jim asks what school Spock went to and what it was like, just to keep talking and to keep learning. He wants to know everything he can about this new creature, and Spock matches him question for question every time. They talk for a long time, and eventually work their way back into the sleeping bag, lying next to each other and discussing everything from Andorian cheese to the difference in where their hearts literally are in their bodies.

Jim doesn’t ever want the rain to stop.

* * *

But it does eventually, and Jim’s mother comes to fetch them. Lunch is some bland form of granola that Jim doesn’t like but Spock seems to enjoy. When they’re done, Stonn suggests returning to the ranger station. Suval agrees that this sounds like a good idea. Sarek suggests, “Perhaps Spock and Jim should attend as well.” 

T’Pern nods. “It would not due to get lost on our last day.” Jim doubts they’d get lost, but he shrugs and goes. He gets the feeling that the parents are shooing him away. Well, he doesn’t want to listen to their boring political talk anyway. He climbs over the logs and heads for the faded path poking through the trees. The boys all meet there, everyone dressed casually and not for swimming. It’s a shame. But Spock looks good in pants and a shirt too, more Earth-ish than what he probably wears on Vulcan. His t-shirt is a plain blue. Suval and Stonn are both in striped v-necks. Jim’s got his ‘go climb a rock,’ shirt, and he’s surprised he hasn’t had to explain it to anyone yet.

For the first few minutes, the boys are all silent while the sounds of their parents drown into the background, caught over the general lull of the woods. There’s rustling and a few twigs being broken and birds, a squirrel here and there. The path’s half mud from the rain but manageable. Jim watches where he steps. At one point, Stonn asks Spock something in Vulcan, and Jim’s ears practically twitch at the exotic language, so flowing and strange. Spock falls a few steps back to answer, and Suval steps up to Jim’s side, asking, “You are enjoying this ‘vacation?’”

“Yup,” Jim says, meaning it but already suspicious. Suval jerks his head curtly in a facsimile of a nod.

“You would, perhaps, have a more enjoyable time were you in better company.”

Not this again. Jim’s already rolling his eyes, ready to snap. Suval either doesn’t understand the gesture or is simply ignoring it, and he continues, “I would again like to extend an invitation towards my tent for our final night.”

“And Spock?” Jim asks.

From a few steps behind them, Stonn interjects suddenly, “I will, as you humans say, ‘take one for the team.’” A human statement. Jim wasn’t expecting that. He’s still going to tell Stonn off, but Suval’s going again, redrawing Jim’s attention. 

“We believe this would be for your own safety.”

“My own safety?” Jim glances back at Spock, whose expression is growing darker: veiled irritation. Jim tries to silently communicate between them that it isn’t a problem—Jim’s got this.

Suval stops walking. Jim halts too, turning as Stonn explains, “It must be difficult to keep him off you.” Spock’s head jerks to the side, stoically nearly glaring as Stonn adds, “Clearly, he must be going through _pon farr_ , or he would not be behaving so shamefully.”

“I am not—” Spock cuts in, cheeks turning green, but Jim’s already talking.

“ _Pon farr_?”

“Forgive us; it is a Vulcan condition,” Suval explains. “Spock has been quite inappropriate, following you all the time like a lost sehlat. He is clearly making advances towards you. I believe the human way to describe it is to say that Spock has become something of a ‘slut’—”

“A Vulcan should not be so sexually loose. Pon farr is clearly commencing and you are his intended victim.” Stonn adds right over top of Suval, and Jim’s so caught off guard that the shock actually makes him pause for a full second before he acts. 

Spock looks decidedly angry, but Jim is the one to move. Right as Suval’s saying, “A slut like that should be—” Jim’s punching him in the face. 

Green blood spurts onto Jim’s hand out of Suval’s mouth, and Suval, immediately shut up, stumbles back, clutching his cheek. It’s dark, and Jim’s panting with the effort of not lunging forward and beating the shit out of Suval right there, superior Vulcan strength or no. He rounds on Stonn next, who, looking quite surprised, takes a step back. 

His mother’s going to kill him. But then, if they tell on him, they’ll have to explain what they said about an ambassador’s son, and somehow he can’t see them admitting to that. Evidently Vulcans are _not_ born logical. Whatever inane mental therapy they go through to achieve it in later adulthood, these two clearly need a lot more lessons. Jim looks at Spock, and the rage on his face has completely dissipated. 

Spock looks simply surprised, and he struggles to school that back into a cool exterior. It gets Jim’s back up. Jim rounds on Suval to insist, “You say something like that again and I’ll knock all your teeth out.”

“You are no more stable than he is,” Stonn says. Jim whirls around to glare at him, but Stonn’s slipped back into his dull Vulcan shell. “A human flaw. It was a poor choice of ours to consider you worthy of further study.”

“It was a poor choice of you to be such a fuckhead,” Jim grumbles, and he lets the confusion sit on Stonn’s face, not bothering to explain. Instead, he reaches for Spock’s hand, slipping their fingers together the way Spock has before. He walks passed Stonn stiffly enough to knock into Stonn’s shoulder, and he keeps going, not sparing the other two a second glance. They can find the station themselves. 

When footsteps sound behind Jim and Spock, they’re going the opposite direction. Jim doesn’t turn to check. 

He veers off the path suddenly, out of sight, slipping behind a tree. Then he stops walking; he just needs a minute. Spock stands next to him. 

Spock says quietly, “I am not experiencing _pon farr._ ” Jim’s still not sure what that word means. It doesn’t matter. 

Jim looks sideways. There’s a moment where he wants to explain. He wants to express how much he hates those two, how unfair it is that Spock’s treated that way, how much better Jim would treat him if given the chance. He wants to say that he doesn’t care about Vulcan conditions and he’s not concerned about how _logical_ Spock is and Spock hasn’t been at all inappropriate this entire time. Jim has. They’ve reached a point where everything’s quiet except their breathing, and Jim’s eyes are fixed on Spock’s dark irises, still under the shadowed forest light. 

Instead of all that, Jim lunges forward. He tilts his head and presses his lips into Spock’s. It’s just as soft and _right_ as he remembers. Spock takes less than a fraction of a second to respond, tongue slipping out at the same time Jim’s is. They meet in the middle, tentatively pressing closer. 

Then Spock’s fingers are around Jim’s back, and Jim’s pushed back half a step, so hard that his back slams into a tree. Spock’s flattening into him, one thigh shifting between his and body rolling into his, control gone. Jim can practically feel his hormones going crazy. He’s fired up from the ‘fight’ and wants to pour his irritation into this pliant body against his, wants angry sex right now, wants to push Spock down against the forest floor and claim him so hard that he’ll never doubt how much passion Jim has for him. Forget those other two. Jim can be all Spock needs. 

When Spock pulls back, his breathing’s hard and rough. His eyebrows knit together. Maybe he’s ashamed. Jim strokes his face—won’t let him be. Spock asks softly, “Is my following you around unacceptable?”

“I want you to follow me across the universe,” Jim answers without hesitation. It only makes sense. Why should they ever be apart? Maybe this is why Jim wanted to get into space so badly—so he could skip planets and meet Spock. 

Spock leans back in. Jim meets him halfway. They make out like the teenagers they are, and Jim doesn’t want to let go.

* * *

They’re sitting near the water, feet over the half rock, half mud ledge, kicking aimlessly back and forth. Or at least, Jim’s are. Spock’s are still. They’re both changed into swim trunks and glistening with water, basking in the hot sun and just talking. Stonn and Suval are swimming laps in the distance, and their parents are the same place they’ve been this whole trip. Being a diplomat would be boring, Jim thinks. 

He’d much rather be a captain, and he’s currently trying to convince Spock that he’ll get a galaxy class starship. Because he’s that great. He’ll fly through the Academy in half the years it normally takes, and he’ll be in the Fleet in no time. He wants a mixed crew—some humans, some aliens.

“You will not be entitled to choose your own crew,” Spock points out, ruining the fantasy.

“I know,” Jim sighs. “But it’s fun to imagine it my way, anyway. I’d have Klingons on security—did I mention that?”

“A poor choice,” Spock remarks with a lifted eyebrow. “You are highly unlikely to find a Klingon in Starfleet.”

“But very likely in my head,” Jim points out. “I know they’re not allies now, and I’m not usually fans of them anyway, but I feel like if I had a bunch on my side, no one would fuck with me.” When Spock doesn’t comment, Jim continues, “I would put a Grazerite down in Engineering, because I think they tend to stay calm and I feel like that’s where all the crises would happen.”

“Bear,” Spock says bluntly. His lack of inflection makes it difficult for Jim to figure out where in the conversation that goes.

“A bear would do horribly in Engineering. First of all, I don’t think a universal translator would work for bear, and second of all, I feel like their paws wouldn’t work very well on the computer. Besides, what if they ate some of my crewmen? And how would it even get into the uniform?”

“I was referring to the animal behind you,” Spock explains, this time nodding. Jim turns to look over his shoulder—something large and brown and furry is meandering about the edge of the lake on the other side, and as it turns, Jim gets a look at its muzzle. It pauses to stare into the water, probably looking at fish. “That is a ‘bear,’ is it not?”

“Yeah,” Jim mumbles. It’s a fair distance away but still easily recognizable. Stonn and Suval are closer, but they both seem caught up in their laps, neither paying attention to the animal now pawing at the water’s edge. 

“We should alert Stonn and Suval,” Spock concludes.

Jim considers making a joke about letting the bear eat them. But Spock might not get that he’s joking. He doesn’t like them, but he still doesn’t want them devoured by wildlife. Not that he thinks a bear would eat a Vulcan unprovoked. Right now, it’s not doing anything aggressive. “We’ll circle around and swim out to get them if it gets much closer.” He decides it for both of them. Spock doesn’t protest. 

They’re quiet for a minute, just watching the great beast aimlessly pick at the water. Then it dives in suddenly, emerging a second later with a silver fish caught in its mouth, splashing about wildly. It’s one of the most majestic things he’s ever seen. The bear triumphantly swims back to the shore, shaking out its fur and disappearing into the woods. Jim and Spock stare after it, Jim experiencing the insane urge to run after it and insight an adventure. 

Eventually, they go back to talking. Spock’s ideal crew seems to be an intelligent smattering of Vulcans. Jim starts putting unicorns and dragons onto his crew just to be different, and then he has to explain to Spock not only that those things don’t exist, but why they have names if they don’t. Jim spends a lot of the time smiling.

* * *

The night comes too soon. Jim isn’t ready for it. They eat dinner in a subdued sort of silence, listening to the flickering fire and the sounds of the night. They have s’mores again, and Jim helps Spock make them, and they trade s’mores at one point as Spock asks if the preparation methods make them taste any different. Spock seems to find the taste overwhelming. Too sweet. When they wander back to their tent, Jim’s still licking his fingers clean. 

They change out of their clothes inside, peeling down to boxers, subtly sneaking glances at one another. Jim catches Spock eyeing him almost as much as he eyes Spock. They slip into their sleeping bag together, and despite how hard the ground is, how unforgiving, how uncomfortable, Jim doesn’t miss his bed. His bed’s never had Spock in it. He lies on his side, facing Spock. Spock faces him too, and even through the darkness and the material of their tent, Jim can see the pale moonlight glinting off Spock’s eyes. Jim doesn’t know what to say. 

He whispers, “Promise you won’t forget me.” He fully expects a lecture on the competency of Vulcan memories. Or maybe the idea that this doesn’t have to be the end. They live in an age of space travel—messages will be entirely plausible. Their parents will likely work with each other again, and they’ll both be on their own soon, albeit with separate dreams starting on separate planets. But those are all maybes, and Jim needs something tangible to hold. 

Spock murmurs, “I promise.” The way he looks at Jim seems to imply that he wants the same back. Jim won’t ever forget him. They’ll have to keep in touch. Jim will keep in touch. And if not...

Jim’s going to have a starship someday. Wherever Spock is, Jim will find him. 

Jim lifts a hand out of the sleeping bag, reaching up to cup Spock’s face. He thumbs Spock’s cheek, growing so familiar, and he leans forward. He can tell Spock was waiting for him, for this. Spock surges back. Their mouths meet in the middle, and Jim’s fingers wrap around the back of Spock’s neck, fisting lightly in Spock’s dark hair and holding him in. One of Jim’s legs wraps over Spock’s, the other arm around his trim waist, securing him all over. Jim doesn’t want Spock to ever get away. Spock’s hands are trailing lightly down Jim’s back, the soft pads of his fingers running along the outlines of Jim’s shoulder blades, then spine. He tastes sweet again. Like chocolate and melted marshmallow.

Spock shifts back a few centimeters to mumble, “You taste too sweet.” Jim grins—he didn’t know that was possible. 

That’s not going to stop him, even if it maybe should. He licks his lips, then presses forward again, as though anything’s changed. He can feel Spock’s lips twitch: one of those rare smiles. Jim pulls back to kiss the side of Spock’s lips and promise, “I’ll be quick, I swear.” Another peck, and his tongue swipes at Spock’s between their lips, pulling back after. He nuzzles into Spock’s cheek, rubbing their noses together. “I just need to taste you.” He kisses Spock’s lips again and doesn’t explain any better. He trails his mouth across Spock’s face and finds Spock’s ear, because that’s one of his favourite parts of Spock. He nibbles at the shell and runs over the tip, purring into it, “Roll onto your back.” As Spock hesitates, Jim adds, “Please.”

Spock instantly obeys. Jim’s over him in a heartbeat, held up by hands and knees. He meant what he said—he needs to taste all of Spock. And he knows how to do it, and how to make sure Spock _never_ forgets him. He’s never done it before, but he’s had others do it to him—he thinks he can figure this out. Just in case, he snuggles the side of Spock’s face and asks softly, “I want to try something new—can I?”

There’s a second or two of hesitation, but when Spock nods, his eyes are full of trust. Grinning, Jim leans up to peck Spock’s forehead: his way of saying thank you. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable, and I’ll stop. I promise.” Spock doesn’t look like he’d ever stop Jim, but he nods again. Jim’s smiling down as he sits up. 

The zipper of the sleeping bag is off to the side, and it’s a bit awkward to undo at first, but then it parts easily. He pushes it all away, spreading it out like a blanket. Spock opens his mouth, probably to ask what’s going to happen, but then he closes it again. He licks his lips and whispers, “We must still be quiet.”

Jim snorts, because that’s not going to be a problem for him. But he nods just to make Spock more comfortable. It’s too dark outside for anyone to see what’s going on—the only silhouettes outside their tents are those of the nearby trees. The fire’s out; it’s just the stars. Jim’s straddling Spock’s waist, just looking. Spock’s half bare, beautiful. Jim wishes they were in a room where he could order the computer to put the lights on so he could see better. He makes up for it by feeling his way across Spock’s chest with his palms, earning a slight hitch in breath.

He hates to climb off, but he has to. He shuffles down Spock’s legs, pushing them gently apart. He shifts a bit to get comfortable. 

He leans down and presses his mouth to Spock’s stomach, licking it lightly just to test the reaction. Spock shudders. His body goes rigid. Jim licks at his bellybutton and fingers the tufts of dark hair disappearing beneath the boxers. It takes a lot of effort for Jim to not just pull them down. He turns his face and rests it on Spock’s stomach, looking up to ask, “Do Vulcans do blowjobs?”

Spock’s lips part in curiosity. He looks shaky and hazy, pupils dilated and lids half-down, cheeks already slightly flushed. Jim bites his lip so as not to smirk. “I... I do not know what those are...” Spock’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. Jim figured he wouldn’t. If Vulcans can’t eat with their hands, they’re unlikely to eat cock. Jim always figured he’d stick to the receiving end, but... with Spock, that’s all different. Spock’s boxers are beginning to tent from having Jim so close, Jim’s fingers teasing the hem, and Jim ducks down to nuzzle his face into the growing bulge. Spock throws his head back. 

There’s more to ask, but first, Jim wants to warm Spock up to the idea. He opens his mouth and presses it over the outline of Spock’s dick, getting the fabric wet. He blows over it, hoping his hot breath slides through to the skin. Spock mumbles weakly, “J... Jim...”

“I want to take your underwear off,” Jim growls. He didn’t mean that to sound as feral as it did, but he’s nuzzling into Spock’s crotch and he needs more. His own cock is half-hard beneath him, but he’s using both hands to hold Spock’s hips and stroke Spock’s stomach. He doesn’t fully expect to get permission. 

Spock never disappoints. “Ah... take... take yours off, as well...” It’s only half a question. Jim pushes his down his hips awkwardly, kicking them off and letting them lie at the bottom of the sleeping bag. The lukewarm air doesn’t seem so cool with the heat pooling in him. He rubs his half-hard cock against Spock to let Spock know he’s not alone. 

Spock begins to tug at his own waistband, but Jim hurries to help. Together, they get Spock’s legs free, and Jim pushes him back into place, leaning over him and kissing his hip, whispering hushing noises like he’s soothing a horse. Spock’s dick twitches against the side of Jim’s neck, full and nearly trembling. Jim wraps one hand around it. Spock inhales loudly. Jim’s a little nervous himself—he wants this but doesn’t know how good he’ll be. There’s only one way to get better at it. When he slips his hand away, the cock is still jutting proudly up, fully erect and supporting itself. At least that’ll make it easier. 

“What are you going to do?” Spock’s voice is a little shaky. He doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands—they’re loose in the sheets. 

Jim tries to sound as sexy as he can. “I’m going to put your cock in my mouth.” He’s still working up the courage, but he demonstrates by pressing into the base, tongue slipping out to taste the top of Spock’s balls. Spock makes a sharp keening noise, and Jim licks wherever he can reach, Spock’s raw musk filling his nostrils. It tastes bland and strange, perhaps a little salty, a little like vanilla, an odd combination that doesn’t make any sense. It’s not unpleasant. Once Jim starts, he can’t stop. 

He’s laving up the bottom of the shaft when Spock asks huskily, “Have you... have you done this before?” He sounds scared, unsure. But excited. Or as excited as a Vulcan can sound, anyway.

“No.” Jim kisses all the way up, tracing veins with his tongue and lapping at the bulbous head, lips sealing around the tiny hole at the top. Spock’s hips lift off the sleeping bag, the fabric rustling. Jim pulls back and kisses the side. “But if I do it right, it’ll feel good. ...Trust me, okay?” He needs to get started soon before he loses his head and the need to touch himself becomes unmanageable. He watches Spock’s face as best he can while he swirls his tongue around the tip.

“But... it is... dirty...” Spock gasps as Jim sucks at the head. 

Jim stops to ask, breath ghosting over the wet skin left behind, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Spock says instantly, voice practically mewling. “No, do not stop. Please.” He lets his head fall back, staring blearily up at the ceiling. 

That way, he doesn’t have to see Jim’s smirk. Jim licks a full line from base to tip. Then he pauses, preparing himself. He takes a breath. He licks his lips, and he opens them as wide as he can. He thinks he probably looks silly, but Spock isn’t looking at him, so that isn’t a problem. Jim just has to make Spock _feel good._ He’ll be careful with his teeth. He’ll take as much as he can. He slips down around Spock’s dick, and just to be safe, he shifts his hands to hold down Spock’s hips. It’s immediately a good idea—they flinch in his grasp. They’d probably buck up if they could. One of Spock’s hands clamps over his mouth, but it’s not fast enough to stop the breathy near-scream.

Jim smirks around his mouthful of cock. He can feel it touching the walls of his mouth, almost scraping his teeth, and he tries to go down more, then a bit more. It’s heavy on his tongue, and it’s all he can smell. It gets close to the back of his throat, and Jim has to stop suddenly—he pulls off in a flash, almost about to gag.

Spock looks up at him, and Jim, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand, mumbles sheepishly, “Sorry. I just need to get used to it.” Then he feels stupid for explaining. He can tell from the blissful look on Spock’s face that Spock had no expectations and wouldn’t have thought anything wrong. Jim’s cheeks are hot. Or maybe that’s for other reasons. He glances down at the cock below. He wants it in his mouth again. 

He wants his own in Spock’s mouth, and picturing that makes him impossibly hard. He opens wide again and leans back down. 

This time he goes even slower, even more careful. He can hear Spock struggling to keep quiet behind his own hand, and that’s encouraging. Jim doesn’t go down so far—he’s probably only halfway. He brings one hand over to grip what he can’t reach, squeezing at the base and holding it up. The other is firm against Spock’s hip. Jim gives himself a moment to adjust, experimentally moving his tongue and loving the way that makes Spock tremble. There’s something sort of spongy and strange about the substance filling his mouth, but Jim doesn’t know if that’s a Vulcan thing or regular for cocks. It doesn’t matter. 

He likes it. 

Or at least, he likes knowing that he’s doing it for _Spock,_ giving Spock pleasure. It takes a foggy moment for him to remember what to do, and he squeezes harder around the shaft. Then he slowly starts to pull off, pushing down again. 

Spock’s moan slips through his fingers. Jim drinks it up. Jim hollows his cheeks out and sucks as hard as he can, and Spock’s free hand is instantly in his hair, fisting in his blond strands and holding him down. Jim makes a short choking noise but manages to control his gag reflex. His hand stops him from going too far. Spock mumbles, “I am sorry, I am sorry,” and his grip loosens. 

Jim takes that opportunity to begin bobbing up and down, as fast as he thinks he can without getting overwhelmed, squeezing what he can’t reach. He tries to suck each time he pulls off, but he forgets sometimes and doesn’t do it hard enough others, and then he’ll try to do it even harder next time to compensate. It takes him a minute to get into a real rhythm, but once he does, it’s easier. Spock’s the perfect subject—he lies still, trembling slightly but not bucking up, his fingers petting Jim’s hair and his mouth making the most delicious noises, even if they’re stifled. Jim’s own cock is rock hard against Spock’s leg, and he’s humping Spock like an animal before he even realizes it, body curled up and his head occasionally switching angles. His jaw gets sore, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth it, so worth it. 

There’s no warning when it finishes. A hot wave of thick liquid suddenly bursts in Jim’s mouth, and Jim nearly gags, pulling back as much as he can, but Spock’s fingers tighten and suddenly hold him down. Jim manages to get to the head so at least there’s room in his mouth, and he keeps his lips locked around the shaft as Spock’s cum spills into him. It’s slippery and sticky and strange, but it tastes sort of bittersweet, and Jim finds himself sucking to help. Spock moans appreciatively: music to Jim’s ears. Spock might be coming more than humans do. 

But he does stop eventually, and his hand tumbles out of Jim’s hair, his whole body looking spent and exhausted. It’s lightly tinged with sweat, and Jim belatedly realizes that his is too. The tent feels full of steam. Jim sits up, looking down at the green face of his pseudo-boyfriend. Spock blinks up at him, eyes nearly entirely black. 

Jim makes a show of swallowing. He does it twice to make sure he got everything, and then he runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, going over his lips after. Then he opens his mouth to show that it’s all gone. Spock’s panting. 

Grinning wickedly, Jim mutters, “At least I won’t be too sweet anymore.” He’s halfway over Spock’s body before he thinks to ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Spock just nods. Jim happily presses into him, closed-mouthed but still nice. He’s still hard, but he’s perfectly happy to just jerk off on Spock’s stomach. He’d like more, of course, but he isn’t that greedy. He rolls onto his side next to Spock and lets Spock have a minute. 

Spock looks so beautiful like this that Jim actually gets lost for more than that minute. He doesn’t know when else he’ll get to see a post-orgasm Vulcan, but that’s not even the point. Spock’s bangs are slightly messed up from the sweat, slicking them at odd angles. His lashes keep closing, thickly dark. Jim looks at the shape of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks. Jim’s not done when Spock rolls onto his side, tilting closer to press his forehead against Jim’s. 

“I need to please you,” Spock mumbles, and it’s so quiet, but it’s so erotic, one of the best things Jim’s ever heard. Jim shivers in pleasure and shakes his head—Spock doesn’t need to, but he insists, “I do not want you to forget me, either.”

“I won’t,” Jim swears. Spock kisses him, still sweet. Jim kisses back, his arms automatically wrapping around Spock, holding Spock in. Spock’s dick isn’t entirely flaccid yet; Jim can feel it against his own hard-as-rock one. Spock breaks them apart and nuzzles into Jim, still speaking in whispers, sensual in their urge. 

“I have never...” Spock pauses, maybe searching for the right words. “I have never been with anyone... sexually, I mean, but I want...”

Jim wants Spock’s virginity so badly. He didn’t even know it was on the table, but now that he knows it is, he desperately wants it. He nods, licking his own lips, rubbing into Spock. Spock seems to have stopped talking, and Jim hurriedly fills in, “I wish I hadn’t, either, because I wish you could be my first. But I have, and I know what I’m doing there—I... I could make it good, I’m sure... Spock, I want... I really want you...”

Spock just nods. They’re touching each other everywhere they can, faces rubbing into each other, and it makes it difficult to articulate anything. Jim kisses Spock’s lips to show that he understands. 

He doesn’t know how it’ll work for a Vulcan. His fingers are running back down Spock’s body, bypassing Spock’s dick, rubbing down in the cleft below. Spock leans into him, one hand at his shoulder and the other running lower. Spock traces his waist and hesitantly reaches the curve of his ass, and Jim tries to encouragingly lean into the touch. He licks his lips. “We’ll... uh... need some sort of lube...” There has to be something they can use, and if they put their heads together, they’ll think of it. “If I do this right, it shouldn’t hurt...”

Squeezing Jim’s ass once experimentally, Spock mumbles, “No, ah... if my reading is correct, my... my channel should prepare itself...” Spock’s eyes flicker up to Jim’s, as if searching for judgment. 

That’s fucking amazing. All Jim can think is that Spock was made to take his cock. Spock looks like he’s going to say more, but Jim cuts him off by slamming their mouths together for a long, languid kiss. It keeps going while Jim’s fingers explore as much of Spock’s body as he can reach, running down to cup Spock’s ass—they’re still lying so _close_. He finds Spock’s hole with a sense of victory. It’s tiny and puckered, and Jim rubs at it, trying to coax it open, trying to see how to activate its self-preparation. He feels vaguely like he’s been given a new toy to figure out. Jim doesn’t let Spock’s mouth go—he doesn’t need a hint.

It takes a bit of work to get Spock’s entrance to open even a tiny bit, and he’s subconsciously glad his nails are blunt. He probably should’ve spat on his hand or something, but it’s too late now. He couldn’t pull back if he wanted to; his body’s in full sex mode. Spock’s getting better at kissing. He can feel Spock shudder in his arms at each new experience, but he’s careful. He pushes the tip of his finger in very, very slowly. Spock’s ridiculously tight, velvet soft, and scorching hot. Jim can’t wait to get his dick inside. If he were a virgin, there’s no way he’d be able to last long enough to.

It isn’t as dry as it’s been with most human girls. It’s not wet, but it’s a little moist. Once Jim’s finger is halfway inside, he moves his kisses to the side of Spock’s face so Spock can tell him if it hurts. Spock’s eyes close momentarily. Then his face scrunches up, and he makes a sort of whining noise that he tries to stifle. Jim gasps. The walls of Spock’s ass are suddenly growing wet, secreting something warm and soft. His finger slides more easily in; maybe Spock’s walls are self-stretching. But it’s still a tight squeeze. One of Spock’s hands runs all up Jim’s spine, and Spock bends forward to nip at Jim’s shoulder. 

If there were time, Jim would want Spock to take him right after. They’d just keep going, spending time together and fucking and working towards space and the future. But there isn’t, and he has to will himself not to think about that. Just enjoy the moment. He has Spock now. He slips his finger out to try and add a second. 

The lubrication, whatever it is, helps tremendously. It’s almost too easy to work his two fingers inside, past any resistance. He pistons them lightly and spreads them out, just a little bit at first, then wider and wider. Spock murmurs against him, “This is not... not necessary...” Using fingers first? But Jim wants to. He needs to be careful. He’s exploring, too, feeling around, lapping up the sensations his fingertips get from brushing Spock’s walls. It’s getting hard to resist. Jim pulls them out slowly, and he has to lift up again to see what he’s doing, to grab his cock and press the tip of it to Spock’s entrance. He needs to hike Spock’s ass up for it, so that Jim’s knees tuck under Spock’s thighs. 

He needs the light. Not to line up, but to get a look at Spock’s open, dripping entrance. Jim can barely see anything, and that’s a shame. This can’t be their last time. No matter what, the first can’t be the last. 

He licks his lips and asks, “Ready?”

Spock says something that Jim can’t understand. Vulcan, maybe? Then his head seems to clear and he says, “ _Yes._ ” That’s all Jim needs. 

He presses in, slowly at first, and he groans when his tip pops inside. It’s instantly wonderful. Spock gasps. Spock seems okay. Jim presses a bit more, a bit more, and he slowly lowers back down, sliding his bare stomach across Spock’s and hovering just over Spock’s face. He leans his forehead against Spock’s and closes his eyes, their noses side by side, his cock sinking deeper and deeper into a utopian heat. It’s still very, very tight. But Spock doesn’t sound like he’s in pain. 

Spock sounds like he’s enjoying himself as much as Jim is; he’s breathless and making hitching, open noises, his arms sliding over Jim’s back. His hands splay against Jim’s shoulders, holding Jim down. When Jim gets as far as he can go, his balls against the curve of Spock’s ass, he shudders and has to take a minute as much for himself as Spock. He whispers, “You feel _so_ good.” 

Spock whispers back with some difficult, “As do you.”

They were made for this. Jim’s sure of it. Lashes fluttering closed and thighs trembling with restraint, Jim slowly shifts back, pulling himself out, only about halfway. He wants to go fast, hard, to claim Spock like an animal, hump him and fuck him into the ground. But this is their first time, Spock’s first time, and Jim also wants to go slow, beautiful. He needs to convince Spock through their bodies that Spock should never, ever leave him; whatever plans Spock has, Starfleet would be better. They could get a room in the Academy together. They could do this every night...

When Jim slides back in, he’s searching. He’s read and watched enough porn to know what he’s looking for, though he doesn’t know if Spock will be different. Spock’s still a little human. 

Spock seems to be enjoying the ride. His legs wrap around Jim’s back, heels digging in near the bottom of his spine, seeming to try and urge him closer. Jim slips out again and tries a different angle. 

It’s immediately obvious he’s found what he’s looking for. Spock’s entire body goes rigid for a split second, fingers digging into Jim’s skin, mouth opening wide. Jim nuzzles into his cheek and murmurs, “Good?” He can’t say more than that. Spock feels too... amazing. Jim pulls out and tries that angle again, a little faster. Spock arches off the ground and into him.

“Right there,” Spock insists, “please, yes...” His wish is Jim’s command. Jim would give Spock a star if he could. 

All he can give is this. He adjusts his own position, forearms on the ground and framing Spock’s body. Then he lets his hips roll properly, working up into their own rhythm, smoothly out and steadily in, always in as far, as deep, as he can get, jamming into the area that seems to make Spock tremble. Spock’s fingers are going to leave bruises into Jim’s shoulder blades, and Jim wants those marks there. He wants physical evidence that this happened. He tries to kiss Spock, sloppy and distracted. 

Yes, _yes_. It’s perfect, so perfect. He pulls out and grinds in over and over again, and Spock’s hips seem to be trying to match him, to press up for more. How he’s going so slowly, he has no idea. He can feel Spock’s dick, now fully hard again, pressing into his stomach on each downward thrust. Jim licks his lips and has to adjust a bit, hips never faltering, to snake his hand between them. He wraps his fingers around Spock’s shaft and pumps in time with his thrusts. Spock immediately mewls and shifts his head to kiss Jim hard. Jim shifts his elbow on the ground so he can use his free hand to slip beneath Spock’s head and cradle it gently, brushing through the dark strands. Spock’s kisses are fervent and desperate.

It’s exactly how Jim feels. He wants to keep this perfect, to keep even and measured, but he can’t, just can’t, with Spock’s tongue down his throat. His thrusts slip into being erratic, still trying to be gentle but only halfway there. He slams into Spock whenever he can, each time making Spock shiver and purr into his mouth. Spock kisses like a dream. Jim’s close, so close, but he doesn’t want to be. 

He wants this to last forever. It sounds stupid, but he means it. There’s nothing else he’d rather feel, nowhere else he’d rather be. He has to keep their mouths sealed to keep himself from being too loud. He’s getting close, and he wants to howl like a lion. 

Another push inside and that’s it; Jim’s whole body shudders and there’s nothing he can do—his vision goes white and he slams his eyes closed. He buries his cock as deep in Spock’s ass as he can manage, grinding down, and he screams into Spock’s mouth. His pleasure is pooling up in his stomach and his balls are tightening. He’s spilling. He’s filling Spock up with his cum, and Spock is taking it beautifully, ass seeming to spasm around him. Jim doesn’t pull out, but he does roll his hips, intent on plugging Spock up as much as possible. 

A moment later, he’s spent, and his boiling head takes a moment to simmer, his head having to pull back to pant. The energy drains from his body. He’s still shakily holding himself up—he doesn’t want to collapse on Spock. He doesn’t want to pull out. He has to; he knows that. But instead he rolls his hips one last time, loving Spock’s grunt. His hand’s gone still on Spock’s dick; he needs a minute. 

“Y... you’re amazing...” Jim mumbles, pressing his cheek against Spock in lieu of a kiss. Spock just makes a keening sound. 

Jim pecks his lips and starts pumping again, while he’s still inside, jerking Spock’s shaft up and down and squeezing and rolling his thumb around the tip. Spock seems to squirm beneath him, then go stiff again, then arch up. Jim slams their mouths together to swallow the incoming scream. 

Spock’s load splashes out between them hard enough to reach their collarbones, trapped where their bodies collide. Jim can feel it slipping over his fingers, warm and slick. He keeps pumping to help get it all out, and Spock keeps coming, until finally the spray dwindles. Then Spock pushes weakly at Jim’s chest, and Jim, reluctantly, pulls out so he can roll to the side. His cock leaves Spock’s ass with a wet squelching noise and a trail of cum. 

Jim lies beside Spock, panting, sticky and spent, with their shoulders touching. The air in the tent is thick and warm but slowly coming back down. The sleeping bag feels hard again, and Jim’s elbow is sore, but he doesn’t care. He pulls his makeshift pillow back up, then helps fix Spock’s. 

He isn’t nervous or new enough to ask how he was, but he hopes Spock had as much fun as he did. It takes Spock a few seconds to roll his head to the side, and then he opens his mouth, hesitating. 

He closes it again. 

He rolls abruptly over and into Jim’s side, an arm draped over Jim’s body. Hugging Jim, or rather, clinging to him. Jim takes that as a silent ‘I love you.’

He has to shift a bit to get the sleeping bag cover back over them. He doesn’t bother to zip the side back up. Spock is warm and heavy on his side. Spock’s nose is touching Jim’s cheek. 

Jim closes his eyes again, satiated but bittersweet. This is the last night he’ll get this. 

The arm beneath Spock curls up, petting Spock’s back gently, then just holding Spock in. 

Maybe they’ll run away in the morning and just stay like this forever. 

Jim seriously considers it as exhaustion claims him, Spock’s breathing even and soothing against his shoulder.

* * *

Jim’s sticky and stale in the morning, the tent smelling heavily of sex and sort of steamy, very warm. It’s exactly the kind of way he likes to wake up, and as soon as he does, he snuggles back into Spock, who’s curled into him. They’re lying side by side, the sleeping bag tight around them. 

Spock wakes up a few minutes later, and he sniffs at the air and makes a face but doesn’t comment. He snuggles right back into Jim and shuts his eyes, clearly as in denial as Jim is. That’s fine. Jim’s foggy-headed and wants to savour this. They catch a bit more time together. 

But Jim’s mother inevitably wakes them up, calling for them only a few steps from their tent. It’s loud enough to nearly make Jim jump. Spock handles it a little better; he just pulls the makeshift blanket over his head and keeps on ‘sleeping.’

Jim rips it away, because he’s not going to suffer alone. Then he yawns a sleepy, “Sorry.”

Spock’s face filters from sadness into neutrality. He sits up slowly, glancing down at his chest. Jim pulls over his bag and fishes through it for his water bottle and towel, and he uses the combination to clean them both off. Spock climbs into new underwear while Jim cleans himself, and by the time he’s pulling on his own boxers, Spock’s combing his hair. Jim reaches over to help, but he might be doing more harm than good. Spock doesn’t shoo him away. 

While they’re in their tent, neither of them says anything. They know that they’ll be packing sometime soon, probably right after breakfast, maybe around lunch. When Spock’s hair is perfect, Jim hugs him tightly for no reason, and Spock doesn’t protest. 

Then they’re climbing out of their tent, fully dressed and still tired. The ambassadors are all at the fire pit in their usual places, but Stonn and Suval emerge a few minutes later. Jim and Spock take their seats between their two parents, and Jim realizes belatedly that they’re holding hands. Seeming to notice this too, Spock lets go. 

Sarek breaks off his conversation with T’Pern to inform Spock levelly, “I am considering purchasing a second home for us on Earth in order to expedite some of my human-Vulcan relationship missions; Admiral Kirk has been most informative as to the benefits of such. Would this be something agreeable to you?”

Spock looks a little like he’s just been hit in the face with a rock. It takes him a full three seconds to get his face back to an acceptable Vulcan blankness. He glances at Jim so quickly that Jim can’t even be sure it’s happened. Jim’s suddenly gripping the log beneath him very hard. 

Spock says, “That would be agreeable to me, Father.”

Sarek nods.

“It’s not something you have to think about right away,” Jim’s mother throws in, and his head jerks around to look at her. She’s smiling fondly at Sarek, though the sentiment isn’t mirrored. T’Pern and T’Paul seem to be off in their own little world now, discussing Terran agriculture. “You’re welcome to come stay with us at any time.” She pauses for a moment to add, nudging Jim not at all subtly, “I’m sure Jim would like the chance to see Spock again.” Jim’s cheeks heat up instantly. 

He’d still hug her if he could. But Suval and Stonn are watching the spectacle, and Jim’s too busy trying to play it cool. He looks at Sarek as imploringly as he can, knowing full well that his desires won’t factor in. Sarek looks as though he’s about to politely accept when Spock interjects, “It is likely Jim and I shall see one another when we attend the Academy.” Sarek’s attention diverts instantly. 

“I was not aware you had made the decision.”

“Jim has informed me of many... interesting... prospects that I believe I had not properly considered. I will be able to study the sciences there, and, as you suggested, be exposed to a broader spectrum of information through the Federation’s vast resources.” Fuck it. Jim wants to hug them both. Spock and Sarek are looking at one another in an oddly stony manner that Jim assumes is the Vulcan way of cute family bonding time. Hell, Jim could even hug Sarek right now, although he’s sure that wouldn’t end wall.

If Spock goes to the Academy, Jim’s going to make sure they enter for the same semester, get a room together, and see each other as much as possible. All the time. And Spock can come stay with him in between school times, and his mother can keep Spock’s father busy so that he and Spock can just run off and be together. It’s a vague but beautiful future. 

Eventually, Sarek turns to Jim’s mother to say, very diplomatically, “Your offer of hospitality is generous. I would like to extend the same invitation should you ever visit Vulcan.” Jim’s mother nods, beaming. 

Jim’s just looking at Spock, smiling. Spock’s making a great deal of effort to not look at him back. The corners of Spock’s cheeks are green. 

T’Paul interrupts to say, “As we will be packing in approximately thirty-seven minutes, it might be wise to indulge in a final tradition before returning to our respective homes. T’Pern and I believe this prudent.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jim’s mother asks. 

After a hefty pause, T’Pern begins to crudely sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...” She jabs her finger at Stonn expectantly, clearly assuming that’s how one indicates that another must join in. Stonn and Suval both look mildly horrified. 

Jim joins in before his turn, dragging Spock right along with him.


End file.
